


Presence, At Risk of Absence

by embersdevine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monster of the Week, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 08, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 03:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embersdevine/pseuds/embersdevine
Summary: More than halfway through the trials, Sam and Dean find a portal that takes them to a secret Men of Letters chapter house in Antarctica.  It would be a welcome distraction from what's been going on but something waits for them there.





	Presence, At Risk of Absence

**Author's Note:**

> For the Eldritch SPN Bang on tumblr. A big thanks to spunsugarj2fantasy for doubling as both the wonderful artist and a beta for this monster. Another thanks to my sister who beta'd & helped with the story's development, despite it not being her ship.

_ “Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.” _

\---Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

\---

Transantarctic Mountains

November 12 1934

Cigarette smoke wafts through the corridor, lingering in the stagnant air within the chapter house. The odor has become more pronounced over the last two days, nearly suffocating within the room of origin. 

Noah Weber is a man of few vices. Tobacco is one of them. The habit, Noah would admit, hadn’t been such an addiction before; merely a companion to the whiskey and late night readings. It hadn’t been until recently Noah that cannot be found without a rolled cigarette between his fingers. 

“What an awful smell.”

Noah closes his eyes. “Clara.”

He drops his hand down to the small teacup plate that lays atop the desk, snuffs the end of the cigarette and breathes out. There are hands on his shoulders, a body leaning against his as Noah slumps further in his chair, shifting his legs. The hands move further, draping over his chest until her cheek is pressed against his ear. 

It should be a comfort to have her here. 

But he knows better. 

He can imagine what Clara is doing right now. The true Clara, with black coils drawn back into a bun, suppressed laughter in her chest, olive skin, only getting darker in the sun. Back in her homeland, having not seen Noah for months. And will never see him again. 

“You seem sad today, my darling,” Clara murmurs, lips pressed against his hair. 

Opening his eyes, he spies the papers splayed upon the desk. Reports and spells, his own musings. He knows his fellow partner writes his own thoughts down; messily and quietly panicked in his room across the hall. Benjamen. A young Man of Letters. This would be his second mission. This damned mission in a place God has forgotten. 

“Speak to me, my love,” she continues, kissing his temple. 

She’s not real. And he’s so utterly tired. 

“One more day,” he says, finally. 

“Oh?” 

This imitation of Clara withdraws then, moving around to meet his gaze. She’s smiling. He wants to shut his eyes once more. What an awful smile. He’s memorized _ his _ Clara’s expressions. Never once has that terrible smile ever touched her lips. She leans her form against the desk, tilting her head to the side, much like an intrigued creature would, right before deciding to swallow him whole. 

“Give us one more day to seal it.”

She doesn’t say anything after that. Simply keeps him company as he dips his pen in the ink, jots down the notes necessary. He thinks of poor Benjamin, who sees his dead mother. But they both know these are only ghosts of their memories; echoes of something more sinister that walk these halls. What sits next to him is something of the darkness the Men of Letters is terrified of. 

And he and his partner are the sacrificial lambs. 

\---

Lebanon, Kansas

May 20 2013

Throwing his feet up on the table, Dean leans back in the chair, casting his eyes upwards to the bunker’s ceiling then stealing a glimpse of the tall male near the bookshelves. It doesn’t help his boredom but it certainly displays it. When his brother’s eyes squint in his direction, he feels satisfied it got a fraction of the desired reaction. There’s not much he’s willing to help with at this point in the dreaded research phase, so he’s stuck waiting on Sam to figure out the nerdy side of things. 

Sam has an open book in his hand, leafing through it with hunched shoulders and fully resubmerged into skimming the words. It’s a familiar look on him, Dean notes. Especially recently, as his younger brother has been introduced to the Supernatural Neural Center, which happens to be known as the Men of Letters’ library. Sam’s taken it upon himself to basically camp out here, which secretly annoys Dean. They finally have their own spaces, their own rooms but Sam has yet to personalize it with nothing beyond a toothbrush and his usual wardrobe. And he’s not ashamed to say he’s gone through his brother’s things. Because that’s what he does.

“So it looks like we have everything,” Sam’s saying, getting Dean to blink up at him. He’s got that expression on his face; the kind that has veiled excitement buzzing beneath a mask of neutrality. Which they both know is kinda bullshit. He’s pumped to figure out this new secret the Men of Letters hid away. “We just need to get the stuff together.”

“No sledgehammer then?” 

“Sorry to disappoint, Dean,” which he clearly is not. 

“Ah. Another time.”

This morning, Sam had been looking at the blueprints of the bunker. Dean only knows this because he’d come barging into his room, interrupting a rather good show about Japanese robots, and claiming he’d found a _ secret room _. At the very end of their hallway lays an empty space; Dean hadn’t thought much about how the next room isn’t big enough for the square feet provided but when brought to his attention, he had been ready to go Indiana Jones on the cement wall. Predictably, Sam had stopped him, claiming they needed to find more information. Having done his own share of reading, Dean let Sam handle the rest, though he hadn’t quite appreciated it. 

Sam begins to gather up the books they had taken out. Dean takes the opportunity to observe him, unabashedly. There's an underlying bit of exhaustion in his movements, as if his body weight alone is too much to carry around. Sam has a special brand of the strained and drained look. He thinks about Cas when he had mysteriously came back, wrung out of his mind. Thinks about Kevin, worn and torn and still missing in action. But, to Dean, he knows Sam’s a complete veteran to it. He wears exhaustion better than anyone he knows. 

After the second trial, Dean has watched as his brother stumbled in the hallways, color fading from his skin, konking out right in the library---all the while unaware of Dean’s scrutiny. Benny’s loss is still fresh and with the added trial mess affecting Sam, he’s just processing. Something Sam would say, actually. _ Processing _ . Processing Cas coming back, Crowley’s new crusade of whatever, Kevin going Beautiful Mind. Processing Sam leaving. Processing _ Purgatory _. Because Heaven forbid he gets a chance to figure his shit out before they’re thrown into something new. 

(Purgatory. He thinks of it now and it feels like he could still be there. Just within reach. He doesn’t miss it but---well, it felt like he _ belonged _ regardless. Purgatory has began to bleed into the word _ pretend _. Especially when Sam utters the word, like somehow his brother knows how he much he fit into the fucking cesspool of blood and grime. Knows he should end up there when he bites the dust. There’s something...inside him that slots just perfectly in that damned place, something that sticks to his ribs. Tar coating within his chest.)

“Can you find some yarrow root?” his brother’s requesting from him. 

Dean’s sighing out a, “Yep,” and throwing his feet to the floor, ignoring the creak in his knees. 

\--

So it’s an empty space because there truly is a room on the other side of the cement wall. It’s just that there’s a whole secret, magical door that’s supposed to be there. There’s only a few scarce notes that Sam had been able to find in the log books. It doesn’t come with a warning label. Just a simple: _ 1933 _ . _ 014 Door. Spell as follows… _And due to the inner child’s curiosity that resides in both the Winchester brothers, there’s zero possibility of not opening it. 

“Okay,” his brother sighs out as they face the gray, coarse wall, “Bets?”

There’s a sigil drawn in Dean’s blood in front of them. All he has to do is say the magic words and open sesame. Apparently the spell works similar to the one Henry Winchester had performed, using a slice of his soul. Dean had snorted aloud when Sam said he could offer a bit of his and pulled out the knife to slice open his palm. His brother hadn’t argued but it left another thing unspoken between them, which is all there is these days. 

“Either a room full of cursed objects or weapons. I’m really hopin’ for weapons. You?”

A shrug. “Maybe it lands us to another time like Henry? Or maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s just a room full of more spells. Like the kind the Men of Letters wanted to keep away, even from themselves.”

“A magical vault, huh?” Dean snaps his fingers, pointing at him with a smirk. “You know what? Narnia. We’re gonna see Aslan, Sammy.”

There’s the smallest hint of a humored smile on Sam’s mouth and Dean takes that as a win. A habit that has yet to burn out on its own. _ Make Sammy laugh _. With stainless spoons disguised as airplanes at three years old, whoopie cushions stuffed under the covers at ten or clever, but poorly timed, quips from fourteen and up, it’s been a latent mission. Sometimes, he wonders why he tries at all. As much as he likes to deny it, Sam’s humor is much like his own but suppressed, especially in the company of others. Another denial of their childhood. 

Dean clears his throat and pulls out the index card with the written incantation. All capital letters because he told Sam he couldn’t read the print-cursive hybrid handwriting some years ago. So Sam uses all caps nowadays. Well, Dean’s _ thinks _ that’s the reason anyway. 

Reading it aloud, Dean instantly feels the effects. It starts with a pull inside. A cold wave overtakes him and he’s barely able to see the sigil glow white and burn away the blood upon the wall. A hand grips his forearm tightly, steadying him and he realizes he’s wavering. The sigil nearly liquifies into the illumination, spreading and brightening. He’s got to close his eyes for a few moments, holding his breath and suddenly quite aware of his brother’s hand still holding onto his arm. 

When he opens his eyes, he’s staring at a door, matching the rest in the bunker’s hallway. He throws a look at Sam, slightly unimpressed but still interested, which his brother shares. Still doesn’t let go, like Dean will keel over and pass out. Or maybe it’s a subconscious nervousness. Whatever it is, he jerks his arm away and places his hand over the doorknob. 

Sam’s adjusting the strap of the green duffle over his shoulder and heaving out a breath. “Okay, Narnia. Here we come.”

The typical (for their line of work) bright light and they’re stumbling through the door together and nearly run into a red brick wall on the other side. Dean loses his footing then, feeling the wind knocked out of his lungs and lands on his side upon a wood floor. He grunts in some frustration as his brother attempts to help him up and waves him off. 

On his feet, Dean’s reaching behind him, grasping the glock tucked in the small of his back and raising it. Studying their surroundings, he sees Sam has the same caution, gun pointed in the opposite direction Dean had. One glance back from where they came from, he realizes the portal had disappeared. Great.

It’s just a hallway. 

A hallway with four darkwood doors and at the end there’s an exit. Turning around, Dean spies the other end---a red brick wall with an oil painting. He and Sam exchange confused glances before they move down the hall, their usual back-to-back positions and Dean taking the lead. 

The air is stagnant, as if everything is still. Frozen. Simply by moving and breathing, he feels like he’s disrupting a natural order. 

The hallway leads to a larger room that seems increasingly familiar. Bookshelves line two opposite walls, a wooden table in the middle of the room. And further down, it tapers off to another that looks a hell of a lot like their own war room. 

“No way,” Sam says quietly and drops his gun by his side. 

Dean tucks his back and follows his brother to the small island of the room full of outdated controls, a couple typewriters and, well, it’s been awhile but he’s pretty sure that’s an actual telegram machine. The small island in the room has a glass top, a world map displayed beneath. 

“So...they had an extra bunker on the side or something? Because, gotta say, Sam, I don’t think we’re in Kan---”

“Don’t---finish that,” Sam says, throwing a dull look his way. 

A shrug, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Maybe you’re right---this is where they stashed all their really messed up spells.”

“Dean,” Sam’s murmuring then, clearly not paying attention to whatever he had just said. He’s staring down at the map, index finger grazing the glass surface and traveling south. “I don’t think we’re even in America anymore.”

“Uh…m’kay?” 

Shifting over by his brother’s side, he frowns at him before glancing down where Sam’s finger stopped. Right over the south pole, where a blue dot resides nearly in the middle of the white land mass. Another confused look at Sam, then back down at the map. 

“I think we’re in Antarctica.”

\---

“Maybe it works like an invitation? If you’re not sure if it’s a warding, then maybe it’s not.”

“It’s not that simple, Sam.”

After figuring out they would probably need their residential angel for some perspective, Dean had sent out a prayer. Embarrassingly, he had reached for his phone to call Cas at first but after Sam was halfway through gently explaining that there’s probably no cell service in Antartica, he had hurriedly put the phone back in his pocket and sent out a few rushed prayers instead. 

He’s not entirely sure what they expected out of the situation. A Men of Letters bunker, somehow built in the south pole, hidden away and isolated. Sure, their own bunker had been secret for decades but this is something on a whole new level. Maybe he thought Cas could scope it out for them, figure out what’s so special about it. But Cas could only go as far as the foyer of the smaller bunker, trapped by the volt of a door that he only assumed led to an arctic wasteland. He couldn’t even take another step before he reached an invisible barrier, which didn’t help Dean’s growing wariness of the place. 

“It’s...muted,” Cas murmurs, eyes scanning the surrounding room languidly. 

“Muted how?” It comes out like a demand when he asks; doesn’t mean to. Everything sounds like a demand from Dean since Purgatory. 

“Like a blank space,” Cas explains, stiff. “Even the wardings---I can barely feel anything. As if this area in the world doesn’t exist.”

Both Winchesters shift uncomfortably. Dean doesn’t like the sound of that. “But we’re standing _ right _ here.”

“Yes, Dean, I see that.”

Dean sucks in a breath to shoot back something rather offensive but Sam beats him with the usual peace-not-war tone. “Look, we’ll try to cancel out the wardings. In the meantime, you mind getting us a few things?”

After Sam lists off the ingredients to the spell to get back to their own bunker, Dean throws in his own laundry list, which mostly consists of food and alcohol. Sam’s disapproving glance makes him want to snap about holier-than-thou attitudes but bites his tongue, deciding to shrug and shuffle off and leaves his brother to finish talking to Cas. He’s not interested in the deadend conversation. 

Before he turns round the hallway to the rooms, he hears Sam say, “We might be here awhile.”

\---

After the first day, Dean demands his memory foam mattress, since whatever time period these beds were made are the worst. He had chosen the room closest to the corner. He tells Sam he got dibs on the clearly bigger room but his brother doesn’t argue or point out the fact that he generally picks whatever bed near the exit out of habit. Sam gets the one across the hall, down the way. 

When it’s obvious no angel wardings are in the library or engraved in the walls, Sam suggests they look outside. Dean immediately is against the idea because why the hell would they go out there? It’s nothing but a snow desert and he’s not interested in dying in whatever conditions happen to be. So that’s put on the backburner for now. 

Instead, Sam makes a small mission of looking through the library the dollhouse version of their bunker holds. It’s a smaller catalogue of information, not as extensive as the one in Kansas but, according to his brother, it has different books. Not finding interest in handwritten notes loosely bound together or books clearly written during the Revolutionary War, Dean keeps looking for the wardings and whatever the hell generates electricity in the bunker. 

“It’s weird,” Sam muses from the table, hunched over an array of books and papers, “The lights and heat were on when we got here. The bunker in Lebanon...we had to turn on the electricity. But it seems like this one has been running nonstop.”

Yeah, and that’s weird. 

Dean figures he could solve a mystery while he’s searching for strange or familiar sigils. And take a nap or two because he’s been tired ever since that soul-jumping spell they had to do in order to get there. A power nap should reset his factory settings, he thinks. 

Oddly enough, he and Sam don’t spend much time together in the smaller space. He’s not avoiding him but he’s not openly looking for an excuse to talk to him either. Dean chalks it up to recent events, Benny’s sacrifice and Bobby’s soul being turned back to heaven may have been a little too much to process. 

(Processing. Sam’s Stanford vocabulary, slotted in different contexts Dean wouldn’t have thought of. Processing isn’t a hunter thing. Hell, he’s not entirely sure it’s a human thing after everything he’s seen in the world. And it’s definitely not a Winchester thing. So he’s not sure who Sam’s trying to fool.)

And then the damn trials. Trials of God, meant for Dean. It stings a little, still, that Sam had beat him to it. Not that he believes Sam did it in spite but that his brother had thrown himself in the fray when he specifically told him _ not to _. Sam wants to come out of this with a beating heart and Dean didn’t have faith in that initially. But he’s gone along with it because what else could he do? There’s no real argument against closing the gates of Hell. Besides, Sam’s taking it all in stride, probably better than he would have, which gives him a twisted sense of pride.

(There’s something inside him---something that seeks for familiarity in Sam. That maybe if he bent his brother’s chest open, he’d find tar covered ribs too. That dark _ something _ that’s made itself home, a craving for more when it’ll never be sated. He wonders if Sam has anything close to what resides within him. He had seen Purgatory---had Sam understood the raw violence Dean had lived? Had he reveled in it? Dean’s never going to ask.)

With a huff, Dean bypasses the library that holds his brother captive and decides on making the food Cas had brought for them. Gives up on the mystery for now. He’s hungry and he’s sure Sam is too. 

\---

Two days in and they’re no closer to uncovering the wardings or whatever powers up the bunker. 

Sam, however, is Nancy Drew apparently because he’s found out enough for the both of them. 

The bunker had been built around 1930, which he supposes lines up with the earlier generations of the Men of Letters. And the bunker itself? Built right on the side of a mountain. The Transantarctic Mountains, according to Sam. His brother says something related to the ingenuity of it all because this all should be impossible. How would they have built it in the first place? How did they bring the materials over? Magic can’t be a fix-all but Dean begs to differ because they’ve seen some weird shit in their time. Heaven, for one, is crazy enough. Maybe a different realm altogether but he’ll stand by the example. 

“Then there’s the fact that there were no other notes about it other than the spell. Why had it been closed off?” Sam continues his questioning. “There’s no room full of crazy curses. There had been no failsafe for us when we got here. And obviously no one has lived here in decades. And why is it even here? What’s special about Antarc---?”

“_ Sam _,” he barks, pushing the sandwich closer to his brother, “You’re giving me a damn headache. Shut up and eat.”

He doesn’t get one bite into his own sandwich before Sam’s talking again. 

“I think we should check out the outside.”

“I don’t think so. Cas is gonna have to pull our icicles back to Kansas.”

“Dean, what if the wardings are outside the bunker?”

“You just wanna see if there’s a clue why the Men of Letters have a bunker on this continent.”

“No,” Sam says petulantly and then corrects himself in some exasperation, “Yes. Maybe. Look, it doesn’t hurt to check it out.”

“Uh, yeah, it _ does _. I’m not dying outside of America.”

“Fine, I’ll go by myself,” his brother leans back in his chair with the sandwich in hand. Turkey, swiss, tomato and lettuce because Sam doesn’t have a fondness for ham related foods. It’s poultry or nothing with him. But Sam would eat mostly anything homemade by Dean, he’s found out recently. Like when they were younger. “I had Cas get the proper gear.”

“What?” Dean leans forward, scowling. “You’re not goin’ out there alone.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to come with.”

How did…? Dean rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and when he looks back, Sam’s eyes are squinting, his mouth in a thin line---a sign he’s suppressing self-satisfied laughter. 

“Stop that,” Dean tells him.

\---

Stomping through the snowy wonderland is just as bad as he thought it would be. It’s dark and reminds him a lot of the time they had a hunt in Minnesota, which _ sucked _. Sam explains through chattering teeth that at this time of year, the sun isn’t out as much. There’s a few weeks the sun doesn’t rise at all, apparently. Dean hadn’t given it much thought before, honestly. He wants to sarcastically thank the walking encyclopedia waddling next to him but he’s just too cold. Talking feels like a waste of body heat, which Sam has no problem with because he’s a walking furnace. 

In the end, he had relented to go outside with the five layers of gear because he’s bored out of his mind. The mystery power source has turned out to be something he’s concluded is magic, despite his brother’s contradictory theories, and the wardings are obviously not inside. At least, not the ones stopping Cas from walking the bunker. 

The sooner they find the wardings, Sam can get over his fascination for this new bunker and they can go back to Kansas. And Dean’s been getting a bit stir crazy. They’ve barely held conversations when Sam _ does _ take a breather from the library. It feels like they’re in a living time capsule and, if he’s going to be frank, Dean needs to kill something soon. 

Before Purgatory, getting bored meant relief at bars, hustling or continuous searches for the next hunt. But there’s hardly anything remotely close to what usually serves as entertainment for Dean here. It’s frustrating and he’s close to snapping at his little brother just for breathing. And he’d rather not, considering Sam’s been doling out the wounded puppy looks like singles at a strip club. It doesn’t help that the second trial hit him hard, pulling the blood from his face and has him coughing every now and then. So he’s been using more patience than usual, actually. 

They wade along the wall, flashlights guiding their steps. Snow has built up against the structure, though it makes little difference as they’re still able to inspect it. Dean expressed he would not be shoveling snow even if it meant Cas could hang out with them. Instead Sam’s brushing a gloved hand over the red brick when he’s willing to look closer. Dean opts for scoping their surroundings, following his brother as they move. 

It’s far too cold and he can feel it in his bones. That familiar ache in his muscles from tensing. He’s no stranger to winters but he’s never appreciated snow. And the worst part is that he’s packed beneath the biggest fucking coat and boots he’s ever had to come into contact with. They both look ridiculous, trying to walk in the packed snow by the bunker. 

Dean breathes out. He’s tired. 

He takes a couple steps away from Sam to check out the mountain on the other side. There’s not much to see this close up; the building is at the base of it. In daylight, he’s sure it’s more awe inspiring but for now, it’s not much. Glancing in back of him, his eyes flicker over the expanse of the muted white flatlands, nothing until he sees the smile. 

His gaze snags on it until it’s all he sees. 

All his senses narrow to only vision, a strange numbness creeping inside his veins, hearing shot and he’s holding his breath. His muscles still, almost painfully. Freezing is not something he does and it’s like he’s been forced to. A statue in the snow. 

It’s all teeth and darkness. A negative space in the distance and Dean’s unsure how he knows it’s smiling at all. It’s simply something he recognizes first. Then there’s the large eyes, blinking owlishly, a blue so bright, it looks like the spark of a flame. But the smile---the smile is what he can’t ignore. Predatory. Malicious. The form is a darkness against the landscape, a lone and elongated figure, impossibly still. 

Fear. It strikes him as strange he’s feeling fear now, of all times. 

Then comes the strange noise. He barely hears it with the blood pumping through his ears but it’s there and ever present. At first it’s like a clicking but it only takes him a moment to recognize what it is. The sound someone makes when their air is cut off, gasping and trying to suck in oxygen. The desperate and constant voiceless sound. A constant, quiet rattle.

It’s as if it’s standing behind him, leaning further and further, until it grazes the side of his face. Its mouth by the shell of his ear, that never ending gasp---

“---Dean?”

A hand swats his arm and it’s a miracle he feels it through the layers. Jolting, Dean whirls around to see his brother staring at him questioningly, a frown through the outrageous goggles he’s wearing. He shifts closer to him, as if magnetized suddenly. 

The lingering fear remains, though it begins to trickle into a form of alertness. He must be appear rather startled because Sam’s confused expression bleeds into a wary frown, eyes flickering to the landscape and then back to his face. He has to give credit to Sam’s natural instinct. Or perhaps he just knows him that well to understand shit doesn’t usually freak him out. Especially recently. 

“What’d you see?”

“I---you don’t---?” Dean turns back to where he’d see the figure but it’s gone and, distantly, he thinks that seems about right. Of course it’s gone. “I thought I saw somethin’ out there.”

“Okay,” Sam says and nods. “Let’s go back. We’ll have Cas check it out.”

Because they aren’t about to take on some monster without an arsenal. All Dean has with him is a machete and his glock. He’s sure Sam has something along those lines too but they’re not about to chance it. 

Part of him his rather reassured Sam believes him. He hadn’t expected him _ not _ to. But there’s instant acceptance, despite not seeing anything. And then he’s thinking, _ Of course. Why wouldn’t Sam believe me? _It wouldn’t be Sam not to, right? Argue on whatever moral crossroads Sam feels like, sure. But not something like this. Even if he’d corrected his thoughts, there’s now a piece of Dean that doubted that. And what an odd mixture that is.

Maybe it’s because recently they’ve felt so far away from each other. Sam usually follows his lead, listens to the big brother. It’s something Dean’s struggled to maintain control in his life. It’s a dynamic he’s known could change at any given point. And of course, when Sam breaks away from the norm, everything seems out of whack. Since coming back, Dean’s felt---well. He just feels like his world is better when Sam trusts him. 

He ignores the instinct to grab Sam’s arm and drag him inside and is slightly relieved when his brother’s hand falls on his shoulder as they make their way to the entrance. 

\---

Cas finds nothing. 

“I can hardly discern the fact that you two are standing in my presence at all, let alone another entity. But I will keep searching for a time.”

There’s not much they can do about it, really. The bunker is still warded but that’s not stopping Dean from salting the entrance and their bedroom doors. If the bunker is warded, there’s a chance whatever was outside can’t get inside but he’s not about to place his faith in that. For all they know, the bunker is strictly warded against angels. 

Sam doesn’t say anything about the paranoia, instead retreating to the library. He’s begun to catalogue them, the same way he had in Kansas, which half annoys Dean. It’s not as if he wants them to hang out all the time but it’d be nice to hold a damn conversation while they’re trapped in this wasteland. 

Not trapped, Dean has to remind himself. They’re stuck because _ Sam _ got obsessed. He suspects it’s not just the usual wonderment of something new or finding the mysterious power source and wardings; it’s about the trials. But it’s not like the Men of Letters will have footnotes on a demon tablet in the word of God. It strikes some wariness in him; if Sam doesn’t have faith in the mission _ he _ set out to do, should Dean begin to worry?

Sam and his never ending fucking faith. There’s a first for everything, even for Sam’s belief everything can turn out okay. 

Instead of bothering him, Dean opts for three beers and heads towards his temporary bedroom. Doesn’t tell his brother because he can figure shit out by himself, apparently. Landing on the blessed memory foam, Dean leans against the wall and takes a pull from the first bottle, narrowing his eyes at the wall across the room. 

There’s one of those desks, unfurnished but sanded down, smooth and good enough to work on. It has a single drawer on the right side. Dean had inspected it the first day; nothing but blank papers and a dried up ink bottle. Even one of those old timey pens to match. He had found a suitcase full of clothes, that were definitely from another century, under the bed. 

Beyond that, Dean has run out of things to do. Weapons sharpened and the entertainment that worked without wifi ended up being on Sam’s laptop with downloaded documentaries. He’s not sure why he hadn’t thought about saving all the porn videos when he had the chance with the new laptop. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter much tonight. He thinks it’s the air making him so tired. And that soul spell. They’ll have to go back soon but he suspects he’ll need to sleep it off after the jump. There’s no way he’s letting Sam do it. Not with him steadily looking like he’s got the damn flu. 

There’s a red brick that’s cracked in half across the room. Out of place. On the other side of the wall is another room. It catches his eye and he stares until he falls asleep, not able to finish his first beer. 

\---

He wakes up because he feels as if he’s drowning. 

With a gasp of air, he bolts up in the bed. He’s unsure of his surroundings at first, half expecting to be in the Impala or a motel. Most of his life has taught him that. That---or some creepy lair because something got the jump on him. Though it only takes him a few more breaths to understand he’s on another continent, which leaves an unsatisfying pulse in his veins. 

Then he sees Sam. 

He’s leaning back in the chair that accompanies the old desk in the corner, simply staring at him. Twirling the pen until their eyes meet, then he pauses, tilts his head to the side as if questioning _ him _ what he’s doing. 

“What?” Dean groans, rubbing both hands over his face. Fuck, he’s so tired. 

“You’re sleeping a lot.”

Just a statement. Bare and nonchalant. Dean drops his hands to meet his gaze with a deep frown. He knows better. It’s a precursor to another one of his _ Are you okay, Dean? You’re not you _ talks. That _ processing _ talk. And he’s too groggy for Sam’s flavor of brotherly moments. He’d rather cut the head off before this grows into something else. Again. 

It’s their favorite kind of cycle, though, isn’t it? The tug and pull of asking _ what’s going on with you? _Or tepid arguments on who is more fucked up this year. It’s an easy habit and, recently, Dean has more ammunition to throw in Sam’s face than usual. And Sam just---he just takes it, like fucking usual. 

“I gotta get outta here,” Dean sighs out, leaning back against the wall and takes in another deep breath. 

Sam blinks once and there’s a thin line of a smile. It strikes a fond chord inside his chest and Dean chooses that moment to reach for the undoubtedly flat beer he’d abandoned in sleep. “Of course you do.”

“C’mon, Sam,” he groans, nodding to the bedroom door. “Let’s just go back. I gotta kill somethin’.”

“Not hunt?” Sam counters and he hears what he really meant to say. _ Hunting’s the excuse to kill. _

Rolling his eyes, he starts guzzling his beer. He needs to be intoxicated if this conversation is going where he thinks it’s going. 

The pen drops on the desk, a hollow sound to his ears. Sam’s sighing as he stands up, running a hand over the wrinkles of his thighs as he does. “Can I?”

Dean’s about to question what the hell he means until he follows the line of his sight to the lone two beers by the bedside. A shrug. “Whatever.”

The steady buzz of interest and excitement rushes over his skin, a subtle reminder of the past. Late nights, drinking his favorite IPA, quietly sharing the same space with his brother. They’ve hardly gotten the chance. Even after Sam got his soul back, it felt as if they haven’t had this. And, maybe, he’s hoping this is one of those times. 

Like he’d ever dare to. He watches Sam warily, readying himself for another prodding about emotions. Or maybe he’ll bring up whatever the hell he saw outside the bunker, which is oddly on the same level of let’s-discuss-our-feelings talk. He briefly shuts his eyes tight at the flash of a cruel smile, stark white against a form of blank darkness. Another deep inhale just as the bed dips slightly to accommodate another form. 

Sam’s got that look on him; the hushed humored one that’s got him fighting a smile and averting his eyes, like there’s a joke noone knows. But Dean knows. He always knows when it comes to Sam. His eyes follow his movements, follow the twitch of his fingers around the neck of the bottle, follow as he takes a drink, eyes closed, follows the dribble that escapes his lips. There’s that frustrating instinct to wipe it away for him, instilled at a young age when Sam would spill his orange juice. 

Dean takes another drink and rests his head against the wall, shutting his eyes. 

“I didn’t get the chance to see the stars,” comes the soft murmur. 

“Hm?”

“When we were outside. I forgot to look up.”

“Stars are fine in Kansas.”

“Sometimes.”

Dean peeks at him. “Okay, nerd.”

“You used to watch with me.”

_ Still would _, he thinks and immediately shifts, crossing his legs. The conversation, once again, is headed in a certain direction and he thinks it’s inevitable. As always. He drinks again. The bottle is nearly empty. Good. He can take the last one that’s been left on the floor. 

“Were there stars there?”

It catches him off guard but he’s finishing off the beer and it masks his pause enough. Reaching down to grab the third and last bottle, Dean grunts out, “Where?”

Maybe he’d been hoping Sam would drop it. He doesn’t do this often. Push him about these things. After Hell, Sam had tip-toed around the topic. Had shut up instantly if Dean said to. And it’s been the same with Purgatory. An odd sort of comparison because he relates both experiences with his relationship with Sam. 

(Hell had been because he couldn’t live without him. Would rather be tortured in a world of brimstone and terror than allow Sam to die, to burn his body and admit his brother had left him for the last time. Purgatory---well, it had been all he could do to get back to Sam. And he realizes that, with some twisted type of shame, because for a whole year, he fantasized how it would have been if his brother had been stuck there with him. Slashing through flesh, soaked in blood and staring up at Dean with that reversed energy, reeling from the high of finality.)

“Purgatory, Dean.”

He pops the cap and it drops on the wood floor, barely a sound with the ringing in his ears. “No.”

Because he never looked up. 

Sam’s quiet after that and Dean thanks small blessings of habits. Worst part? Dean knows it’s because of guilt he doesn’t say any more. It had probably been out of oppressing curiosity that had him asking in the first place. But, in the end, Sam crushes himself with reminders and remorse. Or maybe he brought it up just to emphasize it, a conscious decision in the middle of this mission to close the gates to Hell. Which sounds about right if Dean doesn’t think about it too much under his buzz of alcohol that’s hardly making a difference. 

They’re shoulder-to-shoulder somehow and he doesn’t remember when that happened. He only notices when Sam brings his leg up on the bed, resting an arm on his knee. And Dean, predictably, can’t look away. Attuned to everything Sam. When he looks at Dean, they’re nearly sharing the same air and he can’t help but think how much better Sam looks right now. Like he’s finally slept off all the afflictions of the trials. There’s even color in his cheeks. 

Their closeness never quite bothered Dean until it’s pointed out directly. Their dad used to throw off handed comments about it. And strangers would mistake it for something else. But maybe it had been too late, even back then. Ingrained within them to share the same space until Sam would decide it’s too much. That’s one of their differences, he thinks. That dark thing inside him, like a strange need to be near. 

“We’ll try out that big ass telescope when we get back,” Dean offers. Olive branch. 

“Yeah. Okay.”

\---

Dean’s stumbling into the library, still rubbing out his eyes in the hopes of wiping away the drowsiness. He knows better but still tries anyway. Sam’s there, of course, stacking papers and books into meager piles. Salt is grinding under his boots, left over from the salt line he’d disturbed from the door coming out. It’s the sound of it that has Sam jumping slightly to look up at him. 

They exchange murmured good mornings before Dean goes to grab a light breakfast for them. Cas had gotten them an assortment of foods and he assumes it has something to do with his complete lack of knowledge for consumption in general. At least, in the idea of tasty, quick meals. He doesn’t feel like cooking, so it’s dry cereal for him and he grabs the orange for Sam. When he returns to the library, he thinks twice about tossing it to his brother and instead sets it down right on top of the papers in front of him. 

Sam glances up with mild amusement in his features. “No bacon today?”

“Not feelin’ it,” he grunts out around the food already in his mouth. 

Sam hums in response, sitting down across from him and begins peeling the orange. “So...I’m thinking we should call it, like you said.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Y’sure?”

“I guess we can come back in between a hunt, try to figure out what the hell the Men of Letters were doing here. But, you’re right. It’s better when we’re both busy. And we should focus on the trials.”

Dean doesn’t remember saying that but Sam has a tendency to read too much into his words anyway. And he’s not about to let a win go to waste. He smirks, vaguely aware some cereal falls from his mouth.

“Nice. Let’s get packed and go. I’m over this place.”

\---

There’s at least three potential hunts waiting for them when they return. He’s already on his laptop, scrolling through the alerts with keywords in his feed. He’s hoping for a monster that he can use a machete with but he’ll settle for demons. Anything he can gank with a blade, honestly. At this point, he’s itching for it, despite the underlying exhaustion. 

They used his blood again for the jump back. Sam had argued about it but after he simply sliced his hand open and began drawing the sigil, Sam had quieted down with silent resentment. And then Sam had to literally pick him up off the floor again when they walked through the door, which had been frustrating but he’d bite the bullet. If Sam used his blood, they’d be having more problems and part of him is not sure his brother wouldn’t end up in a coma. 

Dean sent a text to Cas, letting him know they’re back in Lebanon, Kansas. It’s out of courtesy, so he doesn’t expect an answer back or anything. Like a broken record, Sam’s in the library, filing in all the books and notes he’d taken from the other bunker and reading over them. For the most part, Dean ignores it, despite being in the same room with him. 

“Possible hunt in Wyoming. Over by Yellowstone. Hitchhiker that shows up and scares the shit outta campers.”

Sam doesn’t respond, gliding fingertips over a page. 

Dean narrows his eyes. “Okay. Uh, a woman in California stabbed herself in the heart at some college party. Seven times.”

If Sam’s paying attention, he doesn’t indicate it at all. And maybe it’s slightly pissing him off. And the only items he can currently throw in Sam’s direction (or his face) are a couple books and his own phone. 

“Montana. Dude says he saw his dead sister kill their dad."

His brother pauses. Closes the book, slides it onto a shelf and promptly takes another one out. Dean feels his patience completely snap into pieces. 

"_ Sam _. Talking to you here."

"I hear you, Dean."

"Then what gives?" He holds out his hand, expectantly and probably more indignantly than he intends. "Tryin' to get us moving for a case and you're pretending I'm not in the room."

Sam gives one of those trademark sighs, the kind that lifts his shoulders and drop like cut puppet strings. It somehow irritates him further because he's the one who should be sighing loudly. 

"Dean. Don't you think we should rest at least one night before looking for a hunt?"

It's most likely because of the way he says it that has Dean grinding his teeth. It's not condescending but it's still something close to pity. He hears it in Sam's tone, like he's hesitant and trying his best to be careful. It's his _ processing _voice, ready to lecture Dean about trauma. 

"Really?" Dean's shooting back at him with unveiled annoyance. "I don't need a nap before a hunt. 'M not fucking five years old."

Sam doesn't say anything. Doesn't even turn to look at Dean. A familiar taste of suffocated anger rises in the back of his throat and it's taking a substantial amount of willpower not to cross the room to whip Sam around to face him. A thought flits through his mind, reminding him this is what Sam does. It's not to get a rise out him; he's just silently getting his words together. To have an appropriate response to big brother's wrath. Since Sam was a damn kid, he's been doing the same shit. Fucking _ processing _. Dean doesn't usually give him time for it because it's just bullshit. Sam doesn't think Dean can do something and that makes him wild with displaced fury, smearing over the insecurity. 

Very few times, he's seen Sam not stop to process events. Seeing him at Stanford, an arm wrapped around possible wife number one and brushing Dean off like dust. When he had come back from Hell, secretly wired on demon blood and magnetized to Ruby. Seeing him hunt, unknowingly without a soul, no reservations and far better at the job Dean had ever been. And Dean has no doubt Sam hadn't been _ processing _when he attempted playing house with a girl when he was in Purgatory. There's a common denominator with all of the observations and Dean has a rather sick satisfaction of what it is. 

"Wyoming,” and then a resigned sigh. Sam’s putting the book away and moves out of the room, towards the lower level. “I’ll get my stuff.”

And just like that, his bitterness dissolves into regret. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else, doesn’t really think to talk at all. What would he say?

\---

The last time they had been to Yellowstone was when Dean was eighteen. Winter break for Sam and in between that weird period of Christmas and New Years. Dean had been determined to spend it in civilization. It had been something relating to a black dog sighting. When it was all over, Dean vaguely remembers trying to get Sam to roast marshmallows with him over the flames of the burning monster in jest. Sam had thrown the bag in his face. 

Now they’re back, finishing up the haunting of a wandering ghost who had been run over on the highway over twenty years ago. They stand over the burning body in their faux park ranger outfits in the graveyard, waiting out the half an hour it takes for it to dwindle down. 

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets when he says, “Why don’t we go back to the park? Check out the Milky Way?”

“What?”

“Y’know. Because you didn’t get ta see it in Antarctica.”

Brow furrowed and some confusion flickers over Sam’s expression. It lasts for a few seconds before Dean can backtrack and Sam erases it from his features, settling on nonchalance. “Saw it the last time we were in Yellowstone.”

“You did?”

“We did.”

Dean frowns at that because he truly has no recollection of that. Trying to get to civilization before New Years Eve? Yeah. Sam getting angry at his consistent joking? That too. Their father lecturing them on efficiency and hunting in the wild? Sure. But he doesn’t remember watching the stars with a gangly fourteen year old in a national park. But he can picture it so clearly because it’s simply a thing they’ve done. Occasionally. Like rock concerts or watching Caddyshack for the thousandth time. 

But Sam doesn’t seem put off by it. He wonders how Sam remembers these things after the Cage. Remembers those little habits, Dean’s inner workings, the hunts from childhood and fond memories attached to them. Forty years of Hell had Dean reeling, picking up pieces of their past along the way. But Sam remembers it all, somehow. 

He watches Sam quietly in his peripheral but it’s probably still obvious. Doesn’t say anymore, listens to the fire that crackles and pops and remembers the sound he heard in Antarctica. That chilling rattle.

They fill the grave and decide to pull into the closest, shitty motel they find. 

\---

Sam returns to the motel room, looking like he’s got more energy for some reason, despite being intoxicated. He had stayed longer at the bar when Dean had decided to call it quits. Generally, bars serve as a therapeutic experience for him, though tonight’s different. Tiredness mingled with a deep rooted apprehension buzzes beneath his skin and after consciousnessly having to remind himself to rest the consistent shake of his right leg, Dean told his brother he was going back to the room. He ignored Sam’s questioning look. 

His brother’s never been one to stay alone in bars anyway. It doesn’t surprise Dean that he’s stumbling in thirty minutes after he had gotten there. He’s on the laptop, already looking at the other case in Montana. It’s typically Sam’s favorite nightly activity relating to their job. Tonight’s reversed and he feels like they’ve been living in a mirror world since he’s come back from Purgatory. 

“Couldn’t score?” he asks, not looking up from the screen. 

“I don’t go to score, Dean.”

“Yeah? Then why do you go?” he returns, offhandedly. 

“You’re there.”

That gets him to snap his head up with startlement. “What?”

There’s a few flavors of Sam when he drinks enough. It can be amusing or it can be insufferable and sometimes both. But it’s far and few in between when he’s _ playful _. Once upon a dark, confusing time in Dean’s life, he used to desperately encourage that mischievous side of Sam to come out. An impish Sam indulged a younger Dean with coy remarks and bright grins directed all at him. It set him aflame, had him thinking of one of the oldest fantasies he’s had could be brought to life. A stupid, terrible lie he’d sold himself. 

When he’s staring at Sam now, he spies the smirk, ready to burst with laughter to a joke that’s not even funny. He’s staggering towards the bathroom, light eyes still on Dean, as if he’s about to say something else. 

The jacket is shrugged off, lands somewhere in a corner. His back hits the doorframe of the bathroom and that’s when he chuckles, ducking his head until hair hides half his face and shuffles into the bathroom. Dean’s still staring in the general direction his brother had been, lungs tight with carbon dioxide. 

He’ll pretend that didn’t happen for now. And then joke about it later. Because that’s just---it’s easier. Dissecting his brother’s brain is about as simple as understanding quantum physics and that shit goes over his head. 

At least, he’d like to go through with that plan. 

Sam’s done with a shower, hair wet and dripping onto the white shirt, plopping down on the bed next to his. And Dean’s trying not to watch but he’s still a bit dazed and too exhausted to throw on the usual facade. 

“You’re getting old.”

“Then so are you,” Dean grumbles, shutting the laptop and setting it on the carpet floor. “Go to sleep.”

“Nah, you used to talk all night. Remember?”

“Go to sleep, Sam,” he orders, flipping off the lamp light and blessing them with total darkness. 

“When I was going to classes. Used to call me. Stay up all night on that phone, running minutes you bought me.”

Dean closes his eyes, feels his heartbeat in his ears and breathes out. Yeah, he remembers. 

Remembers buying Sam that phone and sending it to him with the calling cards. Remembers stepping outside and leaning against the Impala in a motel parking lot, talking to Sam for hours about nothing. It had been something of a gamble at first because John didn’t know and Sam had been hesitant, thinking maybe Dean was trying to get him back. Which he was, in an angled, terrible sort of way. In the end, Sam had to lose it all to come, so it didn’t matter. Phone calls didn’t matter. 

Sam’s quiet for a stretch of time and he thinks maybe he’d given up. With some dread, he realizes he doesn’t want the conversation to end. Thinks he hears a faint sound. It’s familiar and unsettles him, so he speaks instead. 

“The Nokia 2100,” he says, “You said you liked it because it had a game.”

A breathy chuckle. “Yeah. Space Invaders type, I think.” There’s a pause from Sam then and he knows the kind. He’s thinking of saying something stupid. And he’s right. “When we talked, I always wanted to tell you---that I. I didn’t meant to leave _ you _.”

“Sam…”

“It just never came up. We talked about stupid things, y’know? I knew you took it that way. The job and family was the same for you. I just needed to get out.”

He drank too much. This is what happens when one of them is drinking and reminiscing. It brings up shit he doesn’t want to talk about. Because if he thinks about Stanford, then he thinks about all the other times Sam’s been absent in his life. And vice versa. 

But there’s a twisted sort of glee hearing Sam say those words. _ Never meant to leave you _ . Because, yeah, he _ did _ take it that way in his youth. After the phone calls stopped two years into Sam’s college life, Dean mindlessly threw himself into the job. For the following two years, he only _ had _ a little brother because it was easier to pretend Sam was simply gone rather than Sam abandoning him.

Dean breathes in and sighs out audibly. “Go to sleep.”

“‘Kay.”

And Dean does the same.

\---

When they get ready the next morning to get to Montana, it’s quiet between them. Dean doesn’t bring up last night and he’s not sure he ever wants to. 

Sam expressing remorse is nothing new. But it had been quiet, devoid of anything but murmured regret and lighthearted words, as if he couldn’t get the admission out any other way. Dean can’t relate to any of it because when he says sorry, it’s because of dire consequences that involves a stopped heart. 

But that---_ something _ inside his chest isn’t as heavy as before. He hates how that feels; being filled with that forgotten need and to have it given as if it had been nothing. As if he could have gotten those words all along. 

\---

The hunt in Montana leads them to a rickety lake house with neighbors a mile away and a shapeshifter hiding within. 

Dean feels for the eighteen year old locked in their car, having been thrown in there in momentary chaos. Grayson Miller has lost a little sister and his father within the same week and the monster is coming for him too. The mother had left the picture years ago, leaving behind the family. Now there’s hardly any left. And after watching his little sister cut their father’s throat has him reeling, expectedly. 

A few days ago, Penny Miller had been found on the property, a few hours dead and killed the same way. As a rule of thumb, most monsters stick to the same style that works for them. Eliminating what kind of monster is always the annoying part but it’s Sam who usually ticks off what it could be. Turns out the most obvious answer can be the right one. They find leftover skin rotting in a toolshed not far from the house. 

Now they have a shapeshifter hiding within the dark house. When the power went out, Dean had dragged the teenager to the car with the order not to open it for anyone, even them, until they had a body to show for it. Sam had rushed to the basement with so many words, where the fuse box resided. And currently, Dean’s headed that way too, silver bullet loaded gun in his hand and a flashlight in the other. 

Monsters and their never ending love for the dark. He can spy the movement of dust, like small specs of glitter when it passes through the moonlight that shines from the windows and his flashlight. The floorboards slightly creak under his weight and he listens for any other indication of someone else in the house. It’s just too quiet and he feels familiar panic; he shouldn’t have left his brother.

“Sam!”

No answer. He’s not sure why he’s surprised every time. 

Another call for his brother but it’s the house that responds instead. With its creaks and faint rattling. He holds his breath, whipping the door to the basement open. A face stares up at him. 

“Dammit, Sam!”

Sam chuckles, moving past him. “I don’t think it expected me---it had shifted into me. It’s down there.”

He grunts in response and begins toward the front door, ready to grab starting fluid and shovels. It only takes a few moments to realize Sam’s not following him. Turning back, he gives him an expectant look. “What are you waiting for?”

And then he gets it. 

The shifter shrugs Sam’s shoulders as Dean raises his gun. Ducking into the kitchen, it barely escapes the shots directed at it. Dean curses loudly as he gives it chase, whipping around the corner. And he should have known better, really. Because that’s exactly where the shifter is hiding. 

It knocks the gun from his hand, both the glock and flashlight go flying across the floor. On instinct, Dean’s gripping onto its arm to pull it in for a solid punch to the jaw, which lands on the cheekbone instead. It stumbles back but not far enough before Dean’s charging again. He’s about to knee it in the gut but it grabs his ankle, gives a hard yank and he’s on his back with the air sucked out of his lungs. 

The shifter straddles his chest, pinning his right arm under its leg and begins whaling on him. 

“Y’know,” it says in between a punch, breathless, “I was just gonna take care of the kid for a bit.”

Dean scrambles to flip them over, kicking his legs and grabbing for its neck. There’s an empty laugh from the shifter before it grasps his left wrist and staples it next to Dean’s head with its hand. The action brings them closer and it leers with Sam’s face. He spits at it. Another laugh. 

“I play with my food. But, see,” another punch as it leans back for momentum and he feels his teeth cut into his cheek, “you and the other guy? Just---there’s just _ so _much material to work with.”

His vision’s blacking out when a blow lands next to his ear. 

“You two---_ so _ fucked up. At least this one is. Can’t wait to find out what _ you’re _ like when I walk outta here with your skin.”

There’s that strange sense of panic when someone else talks about them. About _ Sam _. It’s familiar territory and, usually, he’s able to skirt right past it. But now it’s churned with physical pain and only amplifies the trepidation. He sees a flash of Sam with the shifter, driving away in their car and leaving his---

Dean lifts his hips off the floor, nearly bucking the shifter off. He gets another hit for his efforts, groaning and feels the blood welling up in his mouth. He switches gears, imagines the asshole bleeding out and then he’s gonna fucking burn the fucker’s body out back. And he’s gonna forget about it because it doesn’t matt---

“Bet you’re more messed up than he is.”

It’s a little unfair those are its last words. 

Sam almost always aims for the heart. This time, however, he shoots it in the head, effectively stopping the beating. The force throws it on the floor, next to Dean but before he can react, Sam’s there, shooting the shifter point blank in the chest. Six rounds in total. 

If Dean’s ears weren’t already ringing, they would be now. 

\---

Some other hunter had taken care of the woman who apparently stabbed herself multiple times in the heart in front of friends. They know because there’s an article relating to another college kid ‘blacking out’ for a couple days and recovering in the hospital. A pretty good sign of an exorcism. 

They head back to Kansas. 

Among light conversation and the music providing Dean’s version of white noise, Dean allows himself to think. Remend the threads of dangerous thoughts that had popped out of place in Montana. It’s a cycle by now; always scrambling to pull it together before he detonates the next time. More than likely, Sam will be there with his quiet disappointment but overbearing support. 

His brother has been silent, for the most part. Doesn’t speak unless he prompts him, stares out the window or looks up whatever on his phone. The drive to the bunker has been filled with the usual mundane practices of their life on the road. It’s usually like this, he can’t help but note. But there’s that recent tension with something else staining it further---something that feels an awful lot like what belongs between his ribs. That terrible, dark something. 

He wants to blame Sam for his new flavor of unease. He _ told _ Sam he needed to get out on a hunt. Needed to _ kill something _. The two jobs didn’t give him any relief and it’s only served to drive up the restless demand. But Sam was the one to take it and they both know it. Now Dean’s got a bruised face, a tired body and white knuckling it to Kansas. 

What’s really bothering him, Sam doesn’t know. Dean pretends not to dwell on it. Won’t admit fully. But seeing the shifter with Sam’s face---it sparked up that fantasy again and he despises himself for it. The idea that Sam would enjoy violence as much as he had in Purgatory lights Dean on fire. Somewhere buried in the space between his lungs, he burns with it. The image of a corner of Sam’s lips curled upwards into a dark smirk, delivering raw brutality, will haunt him for some time, he knows. 

Dean couldn’t always count on Sam’s unbridled fury but when it surfaced, he secretly relished in it. At times, it’s all he can do to reign his brother in when the switch has been flipped. He remembers the hot and cold fluctuations of Sam’s mood when they were younger. Dean had almost smudged the odd desire out to focus on covering the others up until Purgatory. Because, of course, all he thought about was Sam. Wondering what Sam was doing turned into what Sam could be doing _ with _him in that dark place.

He had decided that Sam would thrive, as he did, leaving bodies in their wake. 

\---

Being back at the bunker means automatic bedtime. 

Sam barely makes it through the door before he sees him dragging his feet to his room. He doesn’t say anything about it, knows he probably pushed himself to a new limit with the trials still happening and the toll on his body. They both know how much Sam can take before he breaks and that had been tested with the hallucinations. 

The thought about how many times he’s seen his brother exhausted and a bit broken floats through his mind but he squashes it. That will only have him stew on other Sam-related issues and he’s been doing good most of his life keeping it under the obsession line (others beg to differ, but they have absolutely no idea how much worse it could be). Besides, he thinks he had done a good job on the drive back stitching dark ideas back where they belong. 

He ends up in his own room after a shower, hair damp and wearing a shirt, boxers and socks. He’d forgotten the robe in his room, missing waltzing around in it already. Ultimately, he simply settles under his covers in the dark. 

Since Antarctica, he’s felt the strain on his body. A loss of energy that he attributes

to the spell. He’s been pushing through because of this insatiable need for what he’d left behind in Purgatory. And, right now, that need is twisting into something familiar that he’s determined to ignore tonight in favor of sleeping. He has to dig his fingers into the inside of his thigh to stop himself, just as a reminder, and flips onto his side.

But his door creaks opens with one confident knock. He doesn’t open his eyes, simply grunts in acknowledgement. Sam coming to him at this time is unusual, as much as he’d like to say otherwise. Not here, not in this bunker. It’s different in motel rooms or on the road, when their space fuses together and they breathe the same air. Even in Antarctica, despite them not talking much at all, Sam had still come to him. Once, but he still counts it. 

Of course, these thoughts hardly register through his mind. The only awareness granted to him is _ Sam _ and simply that. Through exhaustion, he’s only cognizant of his brother slipping inside the room quietly. In small doses, excitement drips into his consciousness, as if to hiss _ Sam’s here, Sam’s here _ and what a desperate and pathetic pleasure that is.

“Sam?” he murmurs into his pillow. 

Sam doesn’t answer. Not with words. There’s a shuffle on the floor and then the light touch over his shoulder. It’s not enough to rouse him from his position or force him to open his eyes. He’s fucking tired and his brother should understand that. It doesn’t jolt him when he feels fingertips graze over his neck then along his spine. It should shock him but it doesn’t. It does the opposite. Involuntarily, he sighs out, nuzzling his face further into the pillow. 

If Dean had half his mind with him, he’d question it. Unwarranted touch from each other varies but in this circumstance, it’s out of place. A long time ago, when Sam hadn’t reached puberty yet, he’d do this. Peaceful sleep has always been a stranger to Sam, even as a child. Dean would find himself coaxing his little brother through fitful nights, full of odd nightmares and muscle spasms. In turn, Dean got less sleep than Sam had. Though he’d remain unremorseful for it. But Sam doing it in return? Only something in his dreams.

The hand disappears and he slips back into that space in between sleep and consciousness. But then Sam’s body is next to his, silent and nearly encasing his side. Almost touching. Dean doesn’t think much of consequences when he leans back to close the distance, his back to Sam’s chest, seeking that familiar warmth. There’s no real heat to be found and a fleeting thought says _ the trials are wrecking your brother _. A hand returns then, trailing over his arm then, down, down until it meets the wrist in between his legs. 

Dean can’t bring himself to open his eyes. It’s too much to hope, isn’t it? He feels as if he’s in a daze, barely aware. 

“Thought you were tired?” His voice sounds rough to his own ears. “Wanna sleep too, Sam.”

“Then sleep,” comes the reply. Lips suddenly against the tendon of his neck, far too close and so awfully inviting. “If you want to.”

The hand presses against his wrist then, applying pressure to his groin. Dean’s reaction is immediate, slightly bucking his hips. Desire ignites once again, twice fold as before, and he sucks in a breath. His cock responds to the newfound attention, chubbing up within his boxers and against his palm. His mind swarms with laden hunger he’s tried so desperately to bury away. That piece he had been so sure he could leave behind in Purgatory, once and for all cutting that part of him away. But it’s come back, full force and he’s too tired to stop it.

His hand is being pulled away then, directed below his waistband and he doesn’t need anymore coaxing. His fingers slide beneath the material, slow and tantalizing, teasing himself. It’s a fantasy come to life. Unless he’s dreaming---again. It’s happened too many times but he had been satisfied with it in the past, replaying what his subconsciousness had supplied over and over again. But this feels somewhat real and he’s fine with it, far too gone with the idea Sam’s here with him now to care. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” a whisper against his ear.

He grips himself in his hand, stroking once within the confinement of his boxers before thumbing the mess at the top. He jerks at the sharp, distinct sensitivity. Once again, the hand runs up the side of his arm, drops to the nape of his neck and begins rubbing there lightly. It’s a heavy presence, feels Sam’s shaky breath there. He grits his teeth momentarily at the sensation, having kept a languid pace thus far but picks it up then. Sam hums, his mouth having moved in the clothed space between his shoulder blades now. He barely registers them as kisses, too involved in the simplicity of the touch itself. Sam’s touch.

Pleasure sears over his skin, having him jerk into his hand, his lungs constricting with a fast approaching end. Fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulder, up to the back of his neck again, encouraging a moan out of him, trapped behind tight lips. He swallows another down, feeling a particular strong wave of lust overtake him. 

He thinks of Sam closing the small bit of space between them, pressing his body against his. Thinks of his hips grinding against him with his own need and he wants to touch him. Thinks of taking Sam in his mouth, fingers tugging at his hair. Thinks of finally claiming Sam’s mouth. Thinks telling him---

“It’s okay, Dean,” he says quietly again, as if there are others in the bunker to be mindful of, “Just let go.”

Dean comes in shudders, his cock twitching in his grasp and he smothers the low whine into the pillow, barely aware of his brother’s hand wrapping around his middle, drawing him tight against his body. 

After that, he doesn’t remember much. 

\---

In the morning, Sam’s gone. 

Dean isn’t sure why he’s surprised but he’s rushing through the hallway with some panic to his brother’s room anyway. Banging on his door in socks, a black undershirt and dirtied boxers, he calls for Sam. 

It truly wouldn’t shock him. Whatever the fuck that was last night, it wasn’t within the perameters of Sam behavior. And when things go too far between them, Sam bolts. Maybe their timetable had been bumped up with the pressure of the trials, the whole mess with Purgatory and Cas. He doesn’t fucking know but he knows if he opens the door, his brother won’t be there. 

When he finally gives in, he finds the bed empty and made neatly. Possessions are out of sight but that’s nothing new. Sam doesn’t leave anything out and he’s yet to fully move in, honestly. Anything personal is still in a duffle bag somewhere. Dean feels the prevalent feral alarm of losing Sam. (Again and again and again, fuck fuck fuck---) 

It’s not new. He’s not sure why he dreads it every time when this shit happens. But the dismay is knocked up exponentially because of last night. It had been his first thought when he awoke and he’s going to be thinking about it for a long time, Sam or no Sam. Just as he thought he could rip that part out of him, Sam had come to _ him _. And now he’s gone. 

Dean’s rushing back to his room for his phone, throwing on jeans and not bothering with anything beyond his car keys and wallet as he dials Sam’s number. In his urgency, he doesn’t even button his pants, just quickly strides towards the bunker’s exit. When he reaches the library, he halts. 

His brother’s sitting at the table, staring at him questioningly between his buzzing phone and Dean’s face. “Good morning?”

Dean’s gaping at him, confusion throwing his mind into different jagged puzzle pieces. Sam’s here. He’s not gone. His phone still hovers over his ear as he takes in the image before him. Sam’s wearing a new set of clothes, fresh out of the shower, evident as the ends of his hair wets the cloth on his shoulders. And it’s somehow the most relieving sight he’s seen in months. 

Sam clears his throat, jerking him out of the stupor. 

“You weren’t in your room,” he grunts out, jabbing the red button on his phone. 

“So that means I---what? Got kidnapped?” Sam returns, a slow smirk lining his mouth. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean mumbles, shoving his phone into his back pocket and can’t take his fucking eyes off his brother. “You?”

Sam hums a positive. “Just tired but I’m good for another hunt, if you want.”

“And last night?” Dean prompts and has no damn clue why. Masochism, maybe. He just blurts it out, knowing it’s not something he should bring up. It’s not what they do. But then again, what happened last night is nothing remotely close to what they’ve ever done. 

A frown appears on Sam’s face and it raises his hackles fast. He swallows the panic down, quietly waiting on an answer. Sam shrugs and returns his attention back to the open book on the table, something he nabbed from Antarctica. “I mean, I slept pretty well, I guess. Why? You stay up watching that Japanese cartoon?”

“Anime,” he corrects automatically and begins towards the kitchen, pretending the twist in his chest isn’t crushed hope. “I slept fine, thanks.”

\---

When he had first returned from Purgatory, the wild rush of violence had still been coursing through him. In the weeks after, it had been a quiet battle to keep it away, shedding brutality by the day. Though he knows he’ll never be completely rid of it. And he thinks Sam knows that too. 

There’s a disheartening understanding about that fact. He remembers a bony hand splayed out on his chest as the Horseman had rasped, “You’re empty inside, boy.” And then everything had made sense to Dean---the black hole that craves everything at nothing, dwelling within him. That dark thing inside him is the reason he has no real satisfaction from anything. 

It’s his reason for keeping Sam so close. Sam, without a doubt, feels too much. While Dean is the black hole, Sam is the supernova before the collapse. Always teetering on the edge of destruction. And he keeps that close, projects himself onto Sam. Feeds off it. 

Dean’s an empty man with a tattered soul and has no idea what to do with that. So he does what’s easiest: keep Sam close. Safe. Because if he doesn’t, well. Hell. What else can he do?

\---

It’s Sam who finds their next case. 

Vampires nearby, within the state. Dean jumps at the opportunity entirely too quickly, which draws a whimsy huff from Sam. When he has to get a double take, he spies amusement there, tracing the lines of his mouth because he’s predictably attempting to hide the smile. But it’s too late, Dean saw it and he smirks, heading to grab the go-to duffle for vampires. General blades, dead man’s blood, the works.

He thinks his brother probably scoured the internet for a case like this. Because he _ knows _. Dean hasn’t had that fill. Hasn’t killed anything. And it would wound his pride if he cared. But, right now? He doesn’t. And he’s aching for something. 

It’s a normal kind of case. Small town with farms peppering around it. There’s a couple bodies already and Sam tells him there’s a plot of land that’s somehow been owned by a guy for nearly a hundred years now, according to records. So that’s where they’re headed first. 

Excitement has been bubbling forth as he strides into the library. Watches his brother finish putting away the books he’d gotten out earlier and catches his attention. “You ready?”

Sam clears his throat, nodding. He looks sick. Again. “Yeah, just let me grab my stuff.”

“I’ll wait in the car.”

Waiting on Sam turns out to be a solid twenty minutes in the garage but he manages with his phone. When his brother finally does make his appearance, he’s grinning at him and Dean thinks he might have taken some medicine or downed a shot because there’s some color in his cheeks. Or maybe Dean’s imagining things. Again.

That thought should jar him more than it does. But Dean convincing himself of something untrue is nothing new. It only twists the shame inside him, coiling deeper than when he was younger. Back then, terrified and wanting, struck by awful thoughts of _ touch him touch him touch him _ until he nearly broke his mind seven different ways with quieting it down. 

Coming back from that place---he knows it’s brought it back to the surface. Trapped in a world meant for cruel torture, endless and constant, Dean had longed for Sam to be there with him. Even though he’d known Cas was there. Even with Benny at his side. He had imagined his brother slipping into the headspace he did---bloodborne and feral. It’s there, in that dark, dark place, Dean had realized he’d always wanted Sam dragged over to his level of intensity. That Sam would drop his morality, shed himself of fickle principles and just let go. 

But Sam wouldn’t be _ Sam _ if he did. 

\---

When Sam reaches over to turn down the music, Dean has half a mind to snap at him. 

“Dean.”

But he chooses to eye him with annoyance briefly instead. “What?”

“These trials---”

“Sam.”

A sigh. Clears his throat and continues. “These trials are---they’re reminding me of things.”

Dean breathes in slow, ignoring the flare of trepidation and apprehension that comes with it. With the next breath, “What d’ya mean?”

“Like---well, you remember when we had to close a gate to hell? Samuel Colt’s devil’s trap---”

“The railroad. Yeah.”

“I was thinking about that. We’re closing _ all _ the gates. And they’ll be sealed forever. And then---I can’t forget the time I opened one and I---”

“No,” he bites out because this is _ not _ what is going to happen right now. 

Stanford had been one thing. Bringing that shit up hadn’t railed him as much as this will and he knows it. He just knows this will have him spinning for days. Panic bursts through him like never before; it’s different when _ Dean _ says it. It’s to hurt Sam, he knows it. A sticky note on the wall of regrets they share. There’s no excusing it but he does it anyway. 

But if it’s Sam digging this out, it means he’s done with it. He’s finally giving this qualm over to Dean to do whatever he wants with it. There’s no defense, no excuses, just surrender and he’s unused to Sam’s surrender. Even now, after seeing it time and time again. It’s a different brand of submission he hasn’t a clue how to handle in his hands. 

“The church, in Maryland, you remember?”

“Sam.”

“Let me---just listen, Dean.”

“We’re not doing this. We’re on our way to kill vampires and---”

“I should have stayed with you.”

It weighs heavily in the space between them. His eyes are on the road, white knuckles on the steering wheel and the acceleration pumped to only go higher. 

While he had wanted to kill Azazel most of his conscious life and he would sleep better knowing Lucifer could be snuffed out, the ferocity of his desire to wipe Ruby off the face of the earth had been magnified like something he’d rarely felt before. Simply _ thinking _ about her held Dean in such a snare, he’s still not sure how he’d managed to hold off until that night in the church. 

They both knew _ why _ he wanted Ruby gone and it had less to do with the fact that she was a demon and could hardly be trusted and more with the fact that she held Sam’s interest more than Dean. Ruby got Sam to do _ anything _ . Kill without question, lie to anyone, take her to bed. The first time he’d figured it out, Dean thought only one word: _ replaced _. Gone and back from Hell and he’d been replaced by a demon in a pretty meatsuit. 

They just don’t talk about it. Until Sam had opened his damn mouth. 

His yearning for Sam to choose him over everything coincides pretty well with his fear of everyone leaving him in the end. And, eventually, it’ll happen. But this puts him closer to that edge; that realization that maybe this is part of a farewell. 

“Just…” _ stop talking, Sam, don’t bring this shit up again, don’t worry about it, I’m tired of thinking about it, _“Let’s focus on this case.”

\---

They park on the edge of some rundown farmland. It’s a good fifteen acres, if Dean had to guess, desolate of new growth. The ground itself seems to produce nothing but yellowed grasslands but they’re still coming off winter, so Kansas doesn’t have much to offer right now anyway. 

He won’t say it but he’s too exhausted for this job, despite his desire to gut something out. The drive had been strenuous, especially with Sam’s confession and it’s only getting worse. But he’s here now, machete in hand and ready to go. If they’re lucky, they can wrap this all up in one night, head back and he can sleep through tomorrow. 

Sam’s taking the lead for once. Under the cover of night and a new moon, they can at least take the vamps by surprise from a distance. Dean knows, unfortunately by personal experience, vampires tend to hear a heartbeat a good half a mile away. It’s not much but they’ve been doing this long enough. 

His eyes flicker from Sam’s back to the barn, light flickering through the cracks and small windows. There’s murmured voices and burnt wood drift through the air as they near. Dean holds his breath as they press against the wood. 

The usual plan is to draw them out, create some distraction so that they’ll come at them one at a time. It generally works. 

As he shifts to hit the wood planks, he spies movement in the corner of his eye. Something blacker than the dark surrounding them, solid and fast. When he throws a searching glance around, it’s no longer there. Brows knitted together, he frowns and narrows his eyes. Huh.

“Dean!”

From behind him, a vampire hisses as it seeks his neck. Its hands only grab at air as Dean ducks away, stumbling before he can right himself again. He raises the machete but Sam’s already moving past him. He slices the head clean off and he can only watch as the body falls forward. 

Stunned, Dean opens his mouth to say---what? Thanks? But it gets caught in his throat when he spies the look of alarm in Sam’s face. He whips around to see three more vamps headed in their direction. Dean feels the growl in his chest, welling up as he charges at the one on the left. 

Cutting the first one’s head off had been easy but before he can take on the second, it’s got its teeth out and pushing Dean into the barn’s outer wall. It raises him up, toes barely touching the ground and back pressed painfully against the wood. He groans, nearly dropping his machete when he grapples to get the hand off his throat. 

His heart pumps blood so loud, he can hear it as oxygen begins to become something to fight for. He kicks at the monster, managing to make it lose its footing. Taking advantage, Dean makes its head roll too. 

Turning back over to Sam, he watches as the vampire and his brother struggle. Dean rushes over just in time as Sam pushes the vamp to the ground with a roar, heaving as he brings the machete down over its neck. One hack, then two, three. 

Dean stays where he is, watching as his brother hacks away to the vertebrae of the vampire, already dead from the first blow. He can hear the heavy exhales, the faint rattle in the air, the sound the blade makes when it hits bone then finally dirt. 

When Sam straightens his back and turns to him, he’s splattered with blood and his eyes seem a dark shade of empty. And he’s fucking smiling. 

He remembers Antarctica. The gasping click of someone’s lost breath, the negative dark space of a form in the distance and that terrible damn smile. Dean can’t look away. 

“What’s wrong, Dean?” 

He can’t answer. He doesn’t know how to answer. 

Sam takes a step towards him. Vampire blood speckles his hair, down his throat and it looks awful as it does pretty. He hates it. 

Tilting his head to the side, Sam stops, his smile falters but it stays cruel. “Isn’t this how you wanted me?”

Dean mutters something about getting shovels and the starting fluid to burn the bodies. He’s in a daze when he grabs the two shovels and dragging his feet when he returns. His mind is a blank, having been confronted with the one truth he’d been hiding away since Purgatory. 

How he wanted Sam has been something on his mind for decades but after being back, he keeps picturing how much better Sam would look with matching blood splatter over his face. Just as he had appeared in the space between Heaven and Hell. He had _ burned _ with it. The fantasy, the shifter and now this. He can’t register it. Can’t _ process _. 

When he gets back to the outside of the barn, there’s nothing more than beheaded bodies and one set of combat boot footprints. 

No trace of Sam.

\---

There’s three missed calls from Sam when he finally checks it. He wants to throw up but drives straight back to the bunker. 

He feels it with him. That darkness. It tightens his chest, makes it harder to breathe with each hour. And Dean just knows he’s losing pieces of himself on the road because nothing makes sense. All he knows is that he’s got to see his brother. 

\---

Coming down the steps of the bunker, he feels dizzy and nauseated. Nearly keels over when he sees Sam in the library, already rushing to meet him. There’s a great deal of relief as he keeps his eyes on him. 

“Hey---I’m sorry. I don’t...I don’t know what happened but I must have---passed out? When I woke up, you were already gone and I---”

“Sam,” he murmurs, bringing trembling fingers to his forehead, rakes them through his hair to disguise it. “I…”

“Dean?” He’s closer now, hesitant. 

“Sam, I think we need to go back,” he rasps and thinks maybe he needs to lay down somewhere. 

It’s quiet. For a horrifying moment, Dean thinks he’s imagining this too but when he glances up, Sam’s still there, looking completely wrecked as he feels. 

“Yeah. I think so too.”

\---

He doesn’t know what brought his brother to the same conclusion and he doesn’t ask. Number one reason being he doesn’t want to explain what’s been happening because that will cause an avalanche of new problems that he’s not willing to face. It’s better to sweep whatever’s been thrashing around in his mind to himself. And he trusts Sam can handle it too. He hopes. 

They both agree to head back to Anaratica. Cas doesn’t pick up the phone so Dean leaves a message as Sam gathers what they need for the spell. This time, Dean’s prepared; grabs all the necessities they didn’t have last time. Food, water, blankets that don’t smell like a nursery home, all stuffed in a separate duffle bag. 

Before they open the door, Sam says, “I hated Narnia.”

Dean lifts his eyes to see his brother giving the door a hard look. “Yeah? Thought you liked Aslan.”

“They always had to come back.”

“To Narnia?”

“Reality.”

\---

Dean half expects to see a dark figure waiting for them on the other side but it’s the same hallway as before. Stale air and faded red brick walls. Sam has to hold him steady once again before they make it to the nearest room, which happens to be the one Dean had stayed in. 

They both drop down to the bed and Dean leans his head against the wall. It reminds him of that last night they stayed in this place; Sam had drank a beer with him and talked about---

He presses his palms to his eyes. They should have stayed in Kansas for a time so he could get some damn sleep. But he’d been so anxious, too disturbed. 

“This is fuckin’ with my head, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs then sighs out, “You think it’s some type of poison? Maybe it’s what cleared out the previous post members.”

“Whatever it is, it’s got somethin’ to do with that _ thing _ I saw outside.”

“So a monster that gets inside your head. A type of djinn?”

“It didn’t look like any djinn we’ve come across. It was…”

He doesn’t know how to describe it. Darker than dark. He thinks of it and all he can remember is that grin. Stark white against the black form, sharp and jagged. Then he remembers the monster using Sam’s smile from just hours ago, standing in the middle of farmland and dark red decorating his face. He grits his teeth. 

The past few events have him drained. He’s not sure how much more ‘door-opening’ he can take, along with the shitstorm messing with him but he’s guessing something’s gotta break soon. Preferably the monster he’s sure is the root cause. 

“We’ll figure it out later,” Sam tells him, shifting so that he’s slouching on the bed, leaning further back against the wall. The sequoia of a brother kicks out his legs, stretches them and his thigh presses against his. “You keep using your soul for the portal. You need to take a nap.”

Out of habit, he thinks to argue. But Sam’s taking out a book from the duffle, obviously intending to stay up. And stay with Dean. With that peace of mind, Dean hums and allows his form to slump against the wall, folding his hands over his chest with a deep inhale. He fights the adolescent urge to lean against him, seeking out his heat. 

But just to make sure: “Sam?”

And because his brother knows: “Sleep, Dean. I got this.”

\---

It had only been under and hour when he wakes up but he can tell Sam’s having trouble staying awake, so he tells Sam he’s got it. They don’t draw attention to the fact that they need to stay in the same room with each other or that one needs to remain on guard duty. It doesn’t feel like the normal switch off on the job; it feels more like a childish fear after a scary movie, terrified of being alone. 

With almost nothing to do, Dean leafs through the book Sam had been reading but it’s an endless drull of theoretical transformative spells and it gets overwhelmingly boring after the third page. He thinks he’ll give Sam a good four hours of sleep, if it goes that long. In hunter terms, that’s a solid twelve hours. Maybe he’ll take another nap before they figure out what to do besides hole up inside the room. 

Straightening his back against the wall and bringing one leg up on the bed, he stares across the room. Same desk with the drawer with the writing paper and pen he knows is in the drawer. Same wood chair. Same red brick wall with a crack in it. 

What’s weird is that there’s no other sutures or infracture errors of the small bunker. No nail out of place. Not even dust. The place is just oddly free of blemishes. Except for that one damn crack in a red brick. Dean tilts his head to the side, curious. 

Lifting himself off the bed carefully, he makes his way to the brick, pulling out a small knife from his pocket. Flicking it open, he nudges the blade in between the crack, bits of red rock crumbling to the floor. After a few tries, one of the broken halves give way and he pulls it from the wall. 

There, stashed inside the hole, are folded papers with an item atop. He snatches it with newfound interest and opens the papers, skimming over the words. 

_ Noah Weber. _

_ To seal the gate, we will require--- _

_ \---in the form of my dear Clara, whom I believe to be residing in Virginia still--- _

_ \---Benjamin Tuckerson is under the belief his late mother keeps him company--- _

_ \---they come to us alone--- _

_ \---temple is secure--- _

_ \---negotiations for the deal has been made--- _

_ \---pray no one reads this. _

Dean sucks in a breath. This is it. The break in the case. This Noah Weber encountered it before. Whatever the fuck has been playing with him and Sam, it’s messed with this guy too. Him and a guy named Benjamin. He thinks. Turning his attention to the item that had been buried in the wall, along with the strange letter, he examines it. 

It’s a key. Iron and, in the handle, the Men of Letters insignia embedded into it. 

\---

“Okay. So, there’s a record of a Noah Weber being a member but I’m not finding Tuckerson. Then again, I only brought one listings book. I’m sure it’s back in Kansas,” Sam explains, pointing to the name on the yellowed paper. 

Dean doesn’t bother to look in confirmation as he continues scrutinizing every corner of the bunker. He’d tasked himself with finding the mysterious door or safe the key belongs to. Frustrating work because he’s no Sherlock but he’ll figure it out eventually. 

Hopefully.

“So what happened to ‘em?”

“It doesn’t say he ever left, so I’m assuming he died part of the Men of Letters. His note says something about a seal? Maybe he and this...Benjaman bound this bunker to keep something out?”

“Or keep it in.”

They both share a look, uncomfortable. The latter seems more likely but they’re not about to expound on that. Dean goes back to the bookshelves with renewed vigor. Sam’s already told him he’d been through all the books and parts of the library but agreed it didn’t hurt to have a second pair of eyes look at it either. 

“Weber said the seal required their life force. So---their souls, I’m guessing? Like how we open the portal to get here. But if the bunker was sealed, how were we able to get into it?” Sam questions in a murmur. He’s thinking aloud, Dean knows. “And it mentions a temple, which is weird as it is. And something about a deal but it doesn’t say with whom. Could be the Men of Letters or with whatever is messing with us, which means it’s intelligent enough.”

It’s a case, Dean has to remind himself. This is a case that has gone far too long. Almost two weeks of this exhausting fucking problem. And he hadn’t even realized it. 

That gives Dean some pause. He hadn’t noticed anything different with Sam at all. He had been so wrapped up in his fantasy pouring through the crevices of his mind that he hadn’t stopped to think Sam’s behavior was too odd. That it could have been someone else. 

If even for a few moments, he had let himself believe that shifter had been his Sammy. That there’s no possibility that someone else wearing Sam could ever trick him. That’s never happened before. He’s always known. It’s a blow to his pride and speaks to his state of mind. What does that say about him now? He’s lost something that connects him to his brother---that link he had relied on. Part of him fears it’s because this _ thing _ played off that dark want inside him, kept hidden for so long and now it’s finally caught up.

Dean swallows and thinks that’s enough processing for right now. 

“So...I was thinking,” begins Sam, tentative, as if he’s unsure.

“Yeah?” he asks while heading to the miniature war room, checking under the table that displays the world map. 

“That’s north, right?” Sam nods past Dean, at the far end of the war room. 

“And?”

“The other rooms---the end of the halway? It’s the south end.”

“Okay?”

“The mountain the bunker’s built into is south.”

Ah. There it is. He feels the smirk and approval on his face as what Sam’s suggesting finally clicks. 

They’ve seen some weird shit over their years. Granted, they _ are _ hunters. Maneating monsters, ghosts inhabiting mirrors, otherworldly creatures dragging themselves from the deep ridges of the earth. The works. It’s not hard to imagine, after all this time, that maybe the Men of Letters slapped this damn bunker in a god forsaken land for a specific purpose. 

He slaps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and they make their way to the end of the hallway, past Sam’s room and to the strange oil painting on the wall. It’s a good sized paining, reminding him of the kind he’d seen in an old mansion’s house, haunted or not. The painter had used a grayscale of sorts, painting what seems to be shadows of human forms, lined horizontally across the canvas, marching off. 

Dean wastes no time tearing the thing from the wall. When he does, he’s almost relieved to see welded brass in its place and a perfect sized keyhole. He grins at Sam, who offers a smirk in return. 

“Good thinking, Nancy Drew.”

“More _ Hardy Boys _ and less Drew. You found the key.”

“Y’sure?” Dean throws back, all in good nature as he fits the key in, “You got the haircut.”

Sam swats his shoulder and gestures to the wall. “Just open it.”

So he does, reaching behind to grab the glock fitted behind his belt. He holds his breath, briefly wondering if they should go grab the marshmallow coats if this is leading where he thinks. But when he turns the lock, the whole wall itself gives and he has to back up, firearm raised. The wall opens towards them, scraping against the wood floor and Dean has to pull at the edge. 

As soon as the wall-door has been mostly opened, barometric winds hit them, nearly knocking Dean off his feet. The blast of air occurs for a long few seconds before dying down and there’s only the chill left. Not the expected below-zero cold but at least it’s not the stale, unmoving air pressure in the bunker. 

Giving a shrug to his brother, Dean moves forward. It’s a long corridor, with stone walls and floors. Every few meters, a lamp installed to show the way. They’re globes, with soft blue lighting, fading and then glowing brighter every few seconds, as if breathing. Dean pretends that doesn’t freak him the hell out. 

He takes the lead but ensures Sam is only a step behind him. Keep Sam close because he knows his mind will very well break if they get seperated here in Antarctica. Controlling his breathing, he strains his ears for any other sounds other than their footfalls. 

They come to a large chamber room and his eyes are instantly drawn to the middle of it. 

There, at the center of the great hall, hovers an orb of white light, fading dimly then brightening again. Just like the lights in the corridor. It’s huge. Probably about three meters in diameter. At the foot of it lies a flattened platform of stone. 

“Okay. Weird,” Dean murmurs. 

“It...it looks like a sanctuary,” Sam says quietly, moving past him as he glances upwards. “There’s sigils here I’ve never seen before. This must be the temple Weber wrote about. And the light---you think it’s the power source?”

“For the bunker? Maybe. We’ve seen crazier things.”

And it _ could _ be a valid theory, as Dean mulls it over. He wants to say it’s still magic because what else would a ball of light be doing in a huge room like this? The likelihood of witches being here, however, is low and he wants to try to wrap his head around the whole thing but it’s getting harder by the minute. 

The sigils Sam had pointed out are engraved into the stone. One draws his attention the most. A circle with five congruent dashes running through it, nearly meeting points in the middle. He thinks Sam notices it too because sparks of the blue light flickering around the engraved edges. It’s active, whatever it is. Or had been active not long ago. With a glance to the other engraved symbols, he notes it’s the only one that gleams with life. 

“You think that’s…?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean mutters and sends a prayer to Castiel. 

A few seconds later, the sigil burns white, flaring up and filling the ridges of the carved stone. 

“Well, shit. How are we supposed to cancel out a warding that’s in the damn rock?”

Sam takes out his M9 and fires off three rounds at the lowest point of the sigil before some stone falls away. Raising his eyebrows, he gapes at his brother before giving him a shrug and a nod. There’s a smirk on Sam’s mouth that he sort of wants to feel against his own but pushes that desire away. 

“That works.”

“Yeah,” in one exhale. He watches as Sam studies the place once again. “So...what? This place is a temple for what?” He gestures to the columns of gray rock Dean hadn’t bothered noting before. “How were people even here before?”

“It’s built into the mountain,” Dean mutters, glancing back over to the orb of light. 

“Like a disguise for…” Sam trails off, frowning. “Lovecraft once wrote something about pyramids in Antarctica, home to...I think aliens?”

“Nerd,” Dean sighs out, not meaning for it to sound fond. 

Sam continues, “I don’t remember more than that. But think..._ Prometheus _ style. But in the snow.”

“The one came out last year?” At Sam’s nod, Dean wrinkles his nose. “So you think there was some old civilization here?”

“Not so much a civilization but maybe someone guarding it?”

Dean groans, already frustrated. Despite the large globe of light in the sanctum, it’s still rather dark. He roams his eyes around even further before his gaze snags on a couple openings across the great hall. He pats Sam’s shoulder and nods to them, indicating their next move. 

They cross the room, mindful not to go anywhere near the floating light before he heads to one opening. It’s another chamber, though quite smaller. Realizing Sam’s ducked into the other room, he continues examining this one carefully. Shuffling through it, he notes it’s rather bare and dark. The air feels a lot like how the bunker is; stale and motionless. A slab of stone, like a makeshift table, is in one corner. He approaches, opting to depend on the tiny lantern above instead of taking out his flashlight. 

Upon the slab are markings, much like the simple geometric ones in the huge sanctuary outside the room. He frowns, curiously running his fingers over them and jumps back a step when they glow blue beneath his fingertips. 

Turning back, he goes to the room with Sam and finds him standing over a much cleaner carved table and two skeletons resting atop. Their clothes, seemingly degrading with time, appear to be placed in another era. Sam throws him a small look with some dismay. 

“I think we found Noah Weber and Benjamin Tuckerson.”

“Look like sacrifice to you?”

“There’s no...weapons. The table doesn’t have any stained blood,” Sam explains, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. “It’s like they just---laid down and died.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, throwing his hands up in some form of surrender. “I got nothin’. Dudes just died here, for what? And how is there a damn temple---in a _ mountain _\---in the middle of Anarartica?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what’s messing with our heads? The ball of light? Because if it is, I say we get some C4 and just blast this place. The bunker too because it sucks.”

“We can’t just---_ Dean _ . We don’t _ know _ what’s here. What about that thing you saw?”

Dean grits his teeth, hating the brief shudder down his spine. “Then we’ll blow it up too!”

His voice echoes off the high ceiling of the sanctum, nearly startling him. Sam winces, glancing off to the side before meeting his eyes again. Dean wants to backtrack, angry that he feels this oddly scared of this case. It’s freaking him out. Made him believe Sam wanted---

Sam’s eyes widen, looking past him and Dean spins around in alarm, glock raised and aiming at whatever he’d seen. He feels his heart in his throat when he spies it. 

There, across the room, stares something darker than black. And it’s fucking grinning at them. Wide white eyes blink once. 

Dean fires. 

“Shit! Dean!” Sam’s clambering past him and runs towards the general direction of the monster. Dean feels his heart in his throat, too late to grab hold of his brother’s arm.

“Sam! No!” Dean takes off after him.

It’s gone. That much is clear when they approach the other side. But it’s here. It’s somewhere with them and Dean can almost hear the rattle of lost breath. That awful, terrible sound. His breathing is getting shorter and he recognizes it as the jagged slice of fear. 

Sam whips himself around to fully face him with alarm and some horror. “That’s---you saw that?”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs out, feeling that shudder again in his chest. “We need to get outta here.”

When they both turn, someone’s standing between them. Sam sucks in a breath and Dean curses aloud. 

“_ Cas _. What the hell?”

“You weren’t in the bunker when I had searched. Somehow, I was able to walk the premises and found an entrance to…” Cas casts and lazy glance around, “...this.” His eyes land upon the glowing light source, tilting his head with a deepening frown. 

“Cas?” Sam prompts. He sounds on edge but he’s always been good with vieling it, his voice low and careful. “You know what that is?”

“No...but it’s…” a pause, “Old. Very old.”

“Well, we figured that much,” Dean throws Sam a look of disapproval. 

“I mean older than this place. Older than this planet. It’s---there are few things in this universe that emanate this sort of power.”

“Any guesses?” Sam asks. 

“Not at this time,” Cas offers as a response. 

It feels like square one again. 

\---

When they return to the bunker, Dean grabs him and Sam water and they all sit down at the table. For a moment, he thinks maybe he should ask Cas to scan the temple further but they’re not about to separate themselves from a half-powered angel. Especially when there’s a freaky version of a shadow monster running around. 

They run over some details with Cas, mentioning what they’ve learned so far. Sam does most of the talking and Dean throws in words here and there. It’s not much to go on but Cas nods at the information given, silently soaking it all in. Dean’s grateful he doesn’t have to give the full report because he’s almost certain he’d let something slip. The way his mind is right now, he’d reveal something he doesn’t mean to.

“I still cannot feel anything on the land,” Cas admits, “I can’t even sense you are here with me now beyond sight alone. But it would seem the warding you canceled out allowed me to move freely around this place.”

“There’s no other information beyond the spell to open the door and the date that we could find,” Sam says with another deep sigh. “I don’t think they wanted this place on the records.”

“They wanted it hidden away. Weber seemed to say as much in his letter he stashed in the wall,” Dean supplies. 

Sam nods, clearing his throat. “So...we figure out how to kill it and leave.”

“No blowing it up?”

“Dean,” Cas says, “That energy source in the temple...it’s like a small star, contained within those wardings. You’re lucky you figured out the right warding to let me in.”

Okay. Nice. So they have a nuclear bomb next door. He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m going to sleep. We can talk about this in a few hours because between ancient temples and freaky shit messin’ with my head, I’m draggin’ here.”

He stands up and catches Sam nodding his head. “We’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah, I know, Sam.”

\---

He settles in the bed after laying another salt lines down again. With all honesty, he doesn’t know if the thing can get past it or not but it’s worth a try and he has no idea how to protect themselves otherwise. Cas doesn’t sleep, so he guesses they have a steady guard alert at all times. There’s not much else he can do besides take the desired nap, so that’s what he does. 

What wakes him up is the sound of quiet footfalls in the room and, instinctively, he grips the knife under his pillow. When he peeks one eye open, however, he sees his brother nearing the bed until he sits down quietly at the foot. Dean sighs out, shifting onto his back and resting his hands over his stomach. 

“Can’t sleep?”

A small chuckle, breathy and Dean thinks he’d like to smother it with his mouth. Blinking the thought away, he waits while Sam nods, form hunched over and almost vulnerable. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just wanted…”

Dean swallows, watching his brother fight with the words. _ To be closer? Stay in here, with you _. Little wishes from a fantasy of his younger years. The days before Stanford, he supposes, when Sam outgrew him in most things, including voicing his need to stay by Dean. But it’s there, always. When Sam shifts closer to him when they walk, in the motel rooms with separate beds but still sleep facing each other. It’s there. And he thinks they both know it.

“It’s okay, Sammy.”

Sam turns his gaze to Dean and his expression falls to a softer one. “Yeah.” With a deep breath, Sam shakes his head and lifts himself up. “I, uh, actually need to get back to the library. Think I found something. I just wanted to---y’know, check on you.”

“Whatever you say,” Dean turns back onto his stomach, hiding the smirk into the pillow. “Get some sleep.”

“Yep.”

Dean opens his eyes again when he hears the door click to a close. He frowns. Looks to the floor. 

The salt line is still in tact. 

That hadn’t been Sam.

Dean jumps from the bed, blade in hand, as he rushes into the hallway. His eyes catch sight of Sam’s back retreating to the library. There. With a growl he charges, tackling the thing wearing Sam to the floor and they hit the deck hard. He grunts at the impact and hears the same from the monster. Dean twists it onto its back. 

It writhes underneath him but he’s got it pinned, knife to its throat. He leans in, sneering, “Where is he? Where’s my brother?”

“Dean?” the thing with Sam’s face blinks up at him, panting. “What---? No, _ Dean _ , it’s _ me _.”

“Like hell it is,” he hisses, applying more pressure to the blade against its skin. “What have you done with him?”

“Dean!” 

He snaps his gaze up to see Cas standing just a couple strides away, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“It’s not Sam! It’s the monster. It’s been messin’ with my head, coming to me---”

“Dean, it’s me!” it attempts again. “I’m not---!”

“Shut up! You _ just _ tried tricking me---”

“What?” Kaleidoscope eyes blink up to him in wild confusion. “I haven’t seen you since we were all in the library. I just went to grab something. I was in my room---”

Cas kneels down, almost completely ignoring Dean as he presses two fingers to its forehead. His eyes glow the usual light. When he blinks, he withdraws, casting an unreadable expression his way. There’s a tense moment between the three of them as he glances at both of the brothers. 

“Dean, it’s him.”

“No, we don’t know what this thing can do but it’s not---”

“I’ve raised both your souls from Hell. You cannot replicate a soul, Dean.”

It takes him a couple heartbeats to understand that. Angels know souls intimately. And, at least with this, Cas wouldn’t be mistaken. That means he had been wrong. The knife pressed against the throat is his brother’s. 

Dean falls right on his ass, scooting away. Distantly, he can hear the clatter of the knife and his brother’s voice, muffled against his erratic heart rate. 

He couldn’t figure it out. Again. But this time, he thought the monster was Sam. What’s _ wrong _ with him? Wouldn’t he know better? If he can’t distinguish between the two, what is happening to him? Has he lost it? Is this him finally reaching that breaking point? If there had been one thing in this world he could count on, it’s always been his bond with Sam. And he’s the one fraying. 

His eyes meet Sam’s then and he simply shakes his head. Sam’s looking at him like he’s been shot, unveiled fear and worry splayed over his features and Dean had done that. He put that expression on Sam’s face. He swallows, tearing his eyes away. He almost hurt Sam. Because he can’t keep it together. 

Hands grip onto his shoulders, heaving him up onto his feet and guiding him to a seat in the library, where he falls right into. He’s unsure what to say, if he should say anything at all. Sam’s talking to Cas and he can’t fully follow the conversation. There had been a flash of rage when he realized what had come to him wasn’t Sam and now he’s just---drained. All the energy he had placed into finally getting the thing fucking with him has now dissisapated and he’s left with nearly nothing left.

“---means the monster’s in the bunker right now.”

And then Sam’s gone in a rush as Cas simply stares at him warily. Dean clears his throat, ready to snap at him about not being some vicious hellhound but thinks better of it. He knows what this looks like. The mental breakdown they’ve been waiting for since he got out of Purgatory. And, well, it could be. 

He hears Sam’s voice, faint and far away and he assumes it’s in the hallway. After a moment, he registers it. Why would Sam be talking when both Dean and Cas are in the library. Dean throws an alarmed look towards Cas before both of them hear the _ thump _. They’re both racing out of the room and back to the hallway. Dean skids to a stop when he sees his own face staring back at him. 

It grins with his mouth, teeth flashing. 

Cas takes hold of its arm and there’s a flash of light emanating from his hand as he tugs at the monster. It doesn’t bother resisting. Dean doesn’t ponder how strange that is as he bends down to where Sam’s unconscious body lies, shaking him. 

“Sam,” he says, probably too loudly. He moves his brother’s body closer to the wall, shaking him again until there’s some stirring. “Hey, hey, wake up!”

Sam groans out something that sounds vaguely like his name. He breathes out the panic that had begun to build. He’ll never get used to seeing his brother like this. Turning his attention back to Cas and the monster, he scowls. He _ hates _ the way it’s using his face for that grin. Hates to think it looked at Sam that way too. 

They got the monster. But have no idea what to do with it.

\---

While Sam’s still coming around to consciousness, they placed the monster in a chair. He can hardly split his attention between his brother and the thing that looks like him. 

Sam’s head is lolling side to side in a chair Dean dragged across the room, far away from the monster. He’s hardly looked at it since Cas led it in the library, too tense and raw from the events that have taken them to this point. Thoughts of the fight or flight conundrum echo through his brain and it’s getting harder not to do what’s been working for him so far. But he focuses on fully waking Sam up, who has been murmuring his name and moaning, eyes squinting open until they shut again. It’s enough to induce a small anxiety attack. 

Dean throws a wildly furious look in Cas’ direction. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he waking up?”

It’s not Cas who answers. 

With his own voice, the monster says calmly, “It’ll take awhile.”

His eyes narrow, finally looking at it. “You some sort of shapeshifter?”

It tilts its head, a coy expression on its features. It looks out of place and he wonders if he’s ever appeared that way before. “We borrow shapes. And energy. Sammy’s runnin’ out of juice but you’d woke up before I could feed.”

“Feed?” Dean asks at the same time Cas questions, “We?”

It glances behind it, where Cas stands, who is staring down with a scowl. Then back at Dean with what looks like confusion. What the hell? “Why do you think you’re so tired, Dean?”

The question throws him off kilter. His hand on his brother’s shoulder grips a bit tighter and he shakes him again, eyes still on the monster. It waits for a response but Dean doesn’t have one. If he’s to be honest, he had thought it had something to do with opening the door all this time. Getting through the portal, using a sliver of his soul and---

Wait.

“Are you feeding on our souls?”

The monster grins and Dean can’t help how his eyes widen at the sight. It’s such an awful thing, that grin. All teeth and carnivorous. It touches its nose then points at him. “Bingo.”

“What the hell are you?”

“We’ve forgotten our name,” it says, dropping it’s hand with a sigh and a tiny shrug. “We only know what we crave. What we’re meant to do.”

“And what is that?” Cas demands, rounding the chair until he’s in its sight. “The energy in the temple---”

“First Light,” it provides quietly. 

“Come again?” Dean cranes his neck, frowning. “What the hell?”

It smiles at Dean then. It’s unlike the other one; softer, something he’d give Sam on a day meant for beer and quiet jest. It rattles him just the same way. “Our reason for being. When God spoke the universe into existence, there came the First Light.”

Cas turns to him then, a pensive expression deepening his features. “What you would call the Big Bang.”

“We only have a fraction of the First Light here. Pieces are scattered throughout the universe, guarded by us. We are the dark that keeps it hidden.”

“How many of you are there?”

“We are many and we are one,” it waves it hand dismissively, “We can’t be quantified.”

Dean sucks in a breath, growing increasingly frustrated. What the fuck? Why hasn’t it attacked them yet? An angel isn’t about to stop it now. Clearly, it’s unbothered by Cas being here; that was evident when it went after Sam literally down the hall. It blatantly went after him. 

“So that thing in the temple---it’s God’s first sparkler? Fantastic. Great. Why are you even telling all this to us?”

It cocks its head to the side. Reminds Dean of a confused wolf or something beast-like. “Why wouldn’t we? We adore you. All of you.”

“That’s why you’re feeding on our souls?”

“You’ll replenish them,” it says, like it’s no big deal, “Your souls are much like the First Light---we take portions, if that helps.”

“No, it fucking doesn’t!” Dean finally yells, losing his temper. Chaotic ancient monster be damned, he’ll take the risk. “My brother can’t even wake up!”

“He will, Dean. I know how scared you get,” it says gently, as if soothing a child. It sounds out of place coming from his mouth. “Every day, you wander until you see him.”

“No. No, we’re talking about---”

“He does the same, you know. He waits until you find him.”

Dean grits his teeth. The familiar trace of shame accompanies the rage rushing within. It’s a common mixture; a normalcy in his bizarre world. This _ thing _ \---it could have gone on about Dean and his abandonment issues, which it’s clearly trying to get at, but it _ had _ to bring up Sam. Like always, these fucking monsters can’t help themselves. 

It works. Every time. It’s the big red button that says DO NOT PUSH. He knows it’s obvious, this crazed attachment to his brother. Knows it’s been his downfall. Even recently, it’s been proven he’ll do anything. Sacrifice anything and anyone. He chopped off the head of a good friend to get his brother back to him and, well, if that doesn’t spell out issues, he doesn’t know what does. 

But it’s always so fucking annoying when monsters have to point that shit out to his face. 

He stomps over to it, eyes trained on the copied green. It merely watches him with interest, blinking only once. Knife of Kurds gripped tight in his right hand, he uses his other to restrain it by its shoulder. Cas is yelling his name and he feels him grasp his jacket’s sleeve as Dean thrusts the blade into its chest. His gaze never leaves the monster’s, traces of a sneer on his lips. 

The damn thing grins up at him then. 

Dean withdraws, unable to look away as it stays seated and slowly pulling the knife out of its chest. It inspects the blade, fingertips tracing the engraved language and jagged edges. No blood. No _ anything _. As if he’d stabbed the air he breathes. It flicks its eyes back to Dean with the same grin, turning the knife until the handle is offered back to him. 

He snatches the knife back and with one breath, “What the hell?”

“We die when the First Light dies. You cannot kill us, Dean.”

“_ Cas _,” he says through his teeth. 

The angel shakes his head slowly, looking bewildered. “If what it says is true, these beings are older than I am. Only God and the archangels would know of them.”

_ And Death _, he thinks. In a moment of wild desperation, he wonders if they could call in another favor. Or strike a deal. Because he’d take just about anything he could get. 

“You’re different today,” it says then, quiet. 

Dean whips his attention back to the outstanding problem in his life and regrets it immediately. It had been Sam’s voice, not his own. And now he’s staring at the monster wearing his brother’s skin, gazing up at him with something like wonder in its features. He wants to rip the face right off. 

“Change back,” the words nearly get strangled in his throat. He’d meant it as a command, yet it comes out as a plead. “Change back _ right now _.”

“Something’s...shifted inside you,” it tilts its head, examining him. 

He swallows, briefly closes his eyes as quiet alarm racks his body. It doesn’t know him. It _ can’t _ . No one knows him anymore. Not after Purgatory. What he feels when he’s on a hunt, the craving for violence he’s managed until now. The desire that flashes even brighter now when he so much as glances at Sam. It’s all been chewed out; he’s raw and a whole new breed of something _ no one _ can know. 

What’s inside him is nothing but black tar where his heart could be. 

And this _ thing _ is putting it out there, in plain sight, for anyone and everyone to figure out. 

“Is it because of last night, Dean?” it asks but he can hardly hear through the pound of his heart. Its voice is soft, a cruel kindness to the sound of Sam’s tone. “Seeing Sam like that---it frightened you, didn’t it? It’s not what you wanted after all.”

He’s only vaguely aware Cas is watching him now and he’s afraid to look. The judgement he may see there could tip him over the edge. Setting his jaw, he straightens his shoulders and takes one step closer to it threateningly. 

“When I find out how to kill you, it’ll be fucking slow.”

“We told you, Dean. We die when First Light dies.”

“Then I’ll fucking blow it up!”

“Dean,” Cas decides to intrude, “You destroy it and this solar system goes with it.”

He lets out a frustrated roar, throwing his hands up. “I just want you outta my head! Why’re you fuckin’ with us, huh?”

In a blink of an eye, it’s back in Dean’s form, frowning at him. It shakes its head with some confusion. “Because you let us.”

“We didn’t do shit---”

“You’ve held onto the notion of what Sam could be to you. You didn’t turn us away. We only borrowed what was there.”

“Borrowed _ what _?”

“Your thoughts, your wants. It makes it easier to show ourselves to you when it’s someone you cherish. Fondness makes the soul sweeter, after all.”

Dean has to take another deep breath, collect himself because he’s a hair's width away from going over that precipice. 

“Sam’s most fond of you, though you know that,” it’s back to being his brother again and Dean wants to fucking scream. “But you only know half of it, Dean. He’s hopeful and hopeless all at once.”

He doesn’t speak and hates that he’s willing himself to silence. A spark of interest. _ You only know half of it _. But he knows Sam. Knows that it takes two cups of coffee to keep him up all night. Knows the nervous twitch in his fingers means he’s holding himself back from talking. Knows when he’s insecure because he’ll try to straighten his back but his shoulders still hunch over. Knows that if he says his name, he won’t hesitate to look at him in a response. 

Now, apparently, that’s only half of it. And that’s sort of killing him. It’s already confronted Dean about his worst and now it’s trying to tell him Sam’s. He can’t do this to him, he needs to---what? 

“You want to know if he feels the same,” it smiles, that terrible, terrible smile. “What type of muddled, strangled adoration does Sam have for you?” It’s reading his mind. No. It already _ knows _ his mind, he realizes with a sick twist in his gut. “Curious to know how much he---”

“_ Stop _.”

It’s Sam. It should have been Dean to say it. He whirls around to see his brother still seated, hand running through his hair as he glares at the monster through narrowed eyes. And he’s never looked more pissed. Tired and angry Sam is something to behold, at times. 

“Sammy,” Dean’s rushing over, kneeling down to get eye level. Panic surges through him as his brother turns to look at him. Perhaps he fears that glare would be directed at him too, for not stopping the conversation. (He has to know. Now that he’s been cut to the bone with everything the past few months, maybe he’s---it’s just all excuses.) But Sam’s features soften when he stares at Dean, a trace of a smile there. “You…?”

“I’m good, Dean.”

“Great. Because I need your help gettin' this fucker.”

\---

They don’t let it out of their sight. 

Dean watches it mostly, as Sam looks over some notes he thinks are relevant. He mentions something about dark matter and gets to reading. Meanwhile, Dean has no issue glaring darkly at the entity in the room that mozies about. 

It doesn’t seem to mind their scrutiny, which pisses him off to some degree. In fact, it hasn’t made an attempt to leave them at all. When Cas had left with a flimsy excuse and promising to be back, it had waved amicably and said, “Goodbye, soulless one.” It should be more unnerving that Cas can’t make heads or tails of this new monster but he finds some comfort in the mutual confusion and chaos. And while he’s still pissed, he’s more concerned with getting this case over with. 

He hasn’t said much to Sam. He’d fucked up earlier but if Sam’s mad about it, he doesn’t let it show. He simply delves into what little lore they can find about ancient civilizations and whatever’s been on earth since Pangea. Dean’s not about to bring it up because he just _ knows _ it had been the monster fucking with him. Again. Have him second guessing his resolve. Have him _ hoping _. He isn’t sure how much Sam had heard but if he still knows how his brother’s mind works, he’s probably overanalyzing what the thing had said. And he’ll probably come to a conclusion somewhere close to what is the truth, which is terrifying in its own right.

It’s becoming clearer that they may not be able to kill the thing and that sort of pisses him off. He’d wanted blood so badly after everything the past few hours. It stole Sam’s face, had him believing in things he had no right believing---_ wanting _\---and now he’s questioning a lot. The small bits of information. Wondering what he wanted from his brother all along. 

“Okay,” Sam clears his throat, “You keep saying you’ve borrowed from us. What does that mean?”

Both of them are sitting at the table while the monster had been wandering the room. When Sam gives it attention, its face lights up and suddenly it’s by Sam’s side. Too close, bending down over Sam’s shoulder to peer at the notes splayed over the surface. 

It’s delighted to be spoken to, Dean realizes and he suspects it has something to do with the fact it’s wearing his face. It adopts the traits of whoever it’s wearing and he notes how much the monster pays attention to Sam when it’s in Dean’s form. Another reason this thing needs to die. It’s basically showcasing how starved he is for his brother to simply look at him.

“We adore you, Sammy, that’s why we borrow. From any being with a soul.”

Dean slaps his hand down on the table as he stands up abruptly, chair toppling backwards. The action causes both the monster and Sam to jump, staring at him in some startlement. He simply narrows his eyes at his mock imitation and it smiles at him, standing upright and takes one step back from Sam. 

“Uh, okay,” Sam says, more pointedly to him, “So can you give whatever it is you borrowed back?”

“Of course, but you don’t like our true form. I know it unsettles you,” it’s still looking at Dean, despite answering Sam. 

“But you followed us to Kansas. The Men of Letters sealed you away. How could we do it?”

“Oh, Noah and Benjaman,” it says, a fond look crossing its features. Dean usually associates that expression with his love for food, which unnerves him further. “They made a deal with us. We promised never to take again after they offered themselves.”

“But you did,” Sam enunciates. “You took from us.”

“No, we _ borrowed _.”

Sam breathes in through his nose, clearly frustrated. Dean decides to take over. “How do we keep you here? Without following us.”

“Seal the door. You left it open,” it shrugs.

Sam snaps his gaze to him. There’s a bit of hope in his face but Dean’s going to have to be the realist here. 

“How do we do that?”

“You can’t use your soul to open the door again. It’s like...breadcrumbs and we followed. We were stretched thin there. We could only visit you every so often.”

Dean remembers that night then. Just a couple of days ago when he had been too exhausted to open his eyes but desire still thrummed to his core, Sam’s (the monster’s) hand over his and body so close as they lay in bed. He remembers the farm, with headless vampires and that smile on Sam’s face, blood speckled over his skin. 

Realization sparks over Sam’s expression. “Dean---if we can figure out how to perform a cleansing spell, erase your soul from the portal and then get Cas to get us outta here…”

“It won’t follow us,” Dean finishes, then stares at the monster. “And you can’t leave this place? Even when we go back?”

“We’ll see,” and there’s that fucking grin again. 

“Let’s do it,” Dean tears his eyes away from it and nods to his brother. 

\---

It takes a few hours to get what they need. 

Sam has Dean moving about the bunker, looking for various items for the spell. In one of the other rooms, cabinets of different items are labeled with numbers and are easy to find when his brother tells him which ones to retrieve. It seems to be simple enough to do and he’s hoping that this is it. The spell will wipe any trace of them from this place and they can call Cas to get them the hell out. 

Of course, nothing’s easy for them at all. He mentally lists examples in his head as he rummages around a cabinet for the right ingredients. Ever since he was four, the hits kept coming. Starting from the moment Hell infected Sam with demon blood. Then Sam left for Stanford, crushing his status quo. And after Dad died, Sam did too. The crossroads deal, Hell, Lucifer, the Cage, Sam’s lost soul and Cas’ wild hubris. He’d throw the Leviathans in the mix too because he’s just petty. Sam left then too, he recalls, when he couldn’t stand to look at him after Amy. That may have messed him up. And when he returned from Purgatory, he had to face a whole new brand of jealousy and bitterness as he discovered Sam had lived the cherry pie life with another partner. 

He closes his eyes, pausing his search. 

This is what got him into that dark place. The denied want. Yearning for something that’s always been close. And it’s right there; always within reach but Dean could never take it. Not that. Sam would never---things would just be different. And he can’t handle anymore change between them. He’s fine being the fucked up one, even if Sam has no damn idea. He’ll be left chasing fantasies attached to Sam. In a bit of irony, he thinks how evil had longed after Sam as much as Dean still does. 

When he’s gathered what they need, he leaves it on the table in front of Sam. He seems tense, lips thinned and not meeting Dean’s eyes. With a stab of displaced irritation, he looks over to the monster, who has taken his form and is slouching in a chair, staring up at Sam with a bright expression on its face. He narrows his eyes. 

“Don’t talk to him,” Dean tells it, pissed off and so fucking tired. 

“We only say the things you cannot.”

In the corner of his vision, he spies Sam’s gaze snap to him but panic and pride makes him keep a steady, threatening glare at his current double in the room. “No. You’re just full of bullshit.”

“Then so are you.”

Dean takes a step towards the clone but Sam’s voice stops him before he can reach it. “Okay---_ okay _, Dean. Let’s just...we’re almost done. Let’s get this over with so we can go back.”

He considers his options, knows how most of them will make him look like an idiot if he tries anything and grunts out, “Fine. Do it.”

\---

It takes some chanting on Sam’s part, some blood on Dean’s and the wall that would normally hold the portal burns brighter until it fades away. He assumes that means what remains of the portal has been erased. Whatever energy signature it had with Dean’s soul attached to it as been cleansed from the bunker. Hopefully. Sam mentions they’ll probably have to do the same to the bunker in Kansas and Dean has no problem with that. 

Dean doesn’t feel any better but he suspects that’s because they’ve had a literal soul sucker feeding on them for the past few days. He’s not exactly thrilled that the thing had to stay and watch but as long as Cas can teleport them back to the bunker, he’s not going to say anything more about it. The monster has decided to trail after them and it’s mostly been in Dean’s skin, which is better than the alternative. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that he demands it change back when it turns into Sam. And Sam doesn’t seem to have much of a preference, so it stays in Dean’s form.

Sam looks worse than when they first got here. He feels stupid now because he hadn’t noticed. Dean’s finding himself trying to remember the times Sam had looked healthier within the last two weeks because right now, he looks pale and strained. That solid brand of Sam Winchester exhaustion that he wears so awfully well. He should have known. Blinded by want and the idea that _ Sam _ wanted to be around him that much, he had forgotten to pay attention to detail. 

He won’t be making the same mistake again. 

“We wish you well,” the monster says, wearing Sam’s skin this time. Dean narrows its eyes at it, ready to yell at it to switch. “We will miss having humans here for the time being.”

“Yeah, we’re making sure no one comes back here, freak.”

“Dean,” his brother murmurs. 

He sighs, rolls his eyes and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sam’s anxiety must be getting to him if he’s trying to quiet him and Dean’s feeling generous and guilty enough to shut his mouth. He turns his glare back towards the monster. “Change back to me.”

The monster grins and in a blink of an eye, it’s a copy of Dean staring at the pair. In the corner of his vision, Sam shifts and he’s looking in another direction. Dean blinks at the reaction. 

Cas appears a few seconds later. Sam had prayed and he’s not afraid to admit he may have forgotten that vital part of their plan. 

The last thing he sees is the thing waving at them, which is haunting enough. 

\---

He’s laying on his back, quietly willing himself to sleep. After everything, he’s just tired. He suspects they won’t be taking on any cases for a good week and he’s not going to complain about it. Maybe go to the store, grab some food and beer. Sam will want anything green and grown from the earth, like the hippie he is. So he’ll probably do that tomorrow. 

Mentally, he makes a list of the things he’ll do as soon as he feels better. Opening that portal a sum total of four times and then having some monster sipping from his soul has got him physically drained. He can’t imagine what Sam is feeling; the trials wrecking his body and pieces of his soul nibbled on. 

The familiar feeling of hurt pride and anger sweeps the back of his mind, like a reminder that he’s not quite good enough to know better. Not anymore. Big brother Dean has lost it. He wonders when it happened. After Purgatory? Or maybe Hell. He was never the same after Alastair, honestly. Even then, Sam followed his lead. Trusted him. But things are changed now. He can feel it, gnawing at him from the inside out. 

Then there's the fact that they left a rather powerful being back in a wasteland. He has no idea what to do with that. A monster born at the beginning of time that has a strange endearment for those wielding souls. He wishes they could have killed it somehow, solar system be damned. But, in the end, all they can do is ensure no one opens that door for as long as they live. It's not much, considering the average lifespan of a Winchester but he supposes they could figure out something to keep the place away from humans. 

They hadn't talked about it when they got back either, which makes him relieved and nervous all at once. Sam is probably _ processing _and Dean's going to have to leave that alone. If the monster messed with Sam as much as it did with him, then his brother is going to be quietly thinking to himself for a good week. Dean usually gives him shit for the habit of analyzing every little thing but maybe he's trying to process for once too. Might as well.

Sam passes by his door in the hallway and impulse takes over like autopilot. He bolts up to a sitting position. “Hey---Sam!”

It takes a couple beats but Sam’s in his doorway, looking expectant. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t know what to say, actually. With a sick sort of realization, he knows he just wants Sam there. With him. The bunker is bigger and awesome but it does havoc to his odd sense of magnetism to his brother. 

“I, um. Just wanted to know---”

“I’m good, Dean.”

“That’s not…” but he doesn’t know what else to say. 

A few seconds pass and Sam sighs, only needing to take a step and a half to get to the foot of his bed and sits down. Desperately, Dean tries to hide his shock that it worked. He shouldn’t be surprised. They always end up like this one way or another. But after the past two weeks, well, he’s not sure what to expect. 

As Sam folds his hands between his knees, Dean watches him carefully. Had he figured something out? The monster hit the nail on the head and if Sam has been able to sort out that mess… No. Sam wouldn’t be speaking to him if he knows what’s really going on in his head. It would be different. Everything would be.

“I really thought it was you,” Sam says quietly. “It’s messing with me. Even when I know it wasn’t.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles and thinks about how true that feels. 

“It said things. Things I wanted to hear,” Sam goes on, as if Dean’s someone else. Detached from the moment between them and living in his. “Things like...about hunting and---Amy.”

Dean doesn’t hide his reaction this time and grimaces slightly. He supposes it’s his turn to share but what comes out is unintentional. “It talked about Stanford. About Ruby.”

There’s some bit of horror on Sam’s face then but he blinks and it’s gone, hidden by brown hair and closed eyes. Sam faces the wall again, as if he can’t look at him when he reveals the next part. “It apologized for the voicemail. Said we could---just get away after the trials. Settle.”

Voicemail? Okay? He wonders what kind of voicemail he’d left that would put such an importance to give it a _ The Voicemail _. He puts a pin in that for later because it’s the latter that has him wondering something. Dean clears his throat, sitting up fully on the bed and unconsciously leans forward. “You want that? Settle? No more hunting?”

Half of him hates the idea and the other _ longs _ for it. The idea of getting away to another world where they don’t have to worry about what goes bump in the night, the impending apocalypse and twisted monsters is tempting. With some relief, he realizes they could do it if they truly wanted to. Simply figure out a way to get the hell out. If anyone could, it would be them. And it would just be that: him and Sam. 

Getting away from the hunting life before had meant a life without Sam. And that leaves Dean wondering if it had been the same for Sam when he’d lived with Amelia. Had he felt that odd displacement? That empty _ something _ when he went about that clean shaven life? 

“I don’t think so. It told me I had changed my mind.”

_ Something’s shifted inside you. _ There’s some comfort in the fact that it hadn’t just been him who had a fantasy destroyed like that. Wanting Sam to be just as bloodthirsty as he had been in Purgatory flipped on him fast. It’s strange. He doesn’t feel the need for violence as strongly as before all this. He wonders if it had been shocked out of him. If only the other desire had been burned out too. He wouldn’t be faced with wanting to brush his fingers over the back of Sam’s neck, tug him in his direction to feel his warmth against his body. No, he realizes, that would never go. Perhaps it had been engraved in him since birth; this awful, sick attachment to his little brother. Predetermined before Sam came into the world. 

Dean hums, nodding. “Well, shit’s over with now. Let’s just close the damn gates to Hell and worry about what we’re gonna do after.”

Sam huffs out a small laugh and rises. “Yeah.”

“Get some sleep, Sammy.”

Sam turns, flashes a rather frighteningly familiar grin and then he’s walking out of the room. 

Dean freezes and tries not to think about a familiar and terrifying smile in the middle of Antarctica. 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering, since Antarctica, every time Sam came to Dean, it had been the monster.


End file.
